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Turn  to  the  End  of  This 
Volume  for  a  Complete 
List  of  Titles  in  the  Mod- 
ern Library 


UNE   VIF, 

By 

GUY  DF,  MAUPASSANl' 

Or 

1 

THE 

MODERN    LIBRARY 

PUBLISHERS          :•            :;          NEW  YORK 

^  ^Sl  7^/ 


O 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
FOR  THE  MODERN  LIBRARY,  INC.,  BY  H.  WOLFF 


INTRODUCTION 


It  is  so  embarrassing  to  speak  of  the  writers  of  one 
country  to  the  readers  of  another  that  I  sometimes  won- 
der at  the  complacency  with  which  the  delicate  task 
is  entered  upon.  I'hese  are  cases  in  which  the  difficult 
art  of  criticism  becomes  doubly  difficult,  inasmuch  as  they 
compel  the  critic  to  forfeit  what  I  may  call  has  natural 
advantages.  The  first  of  these  natural  advantages  is  that 
those  who  read  him  shall  help  him  by  taking  a  great  many 
things  for  granted;  shall  allow  him  his  general  point  of 
view  and  his  terms — terms  which  he  is  not  obliged  to 
define.  The  relation  of  the  American  reader  to  the  French 
writer,  for  instance,  is,  on  the  contrary,  so  indirect  that 
it  gives  him  who  proposes  to  mediate  between  them  a 
great  deal  more  to  do.  Here  he  has  in  a  manner  to  define 
his  terms  and  establish  his  point  of  view. 

The  first  simplification  he  is  prompted  to  effect  is  there- 
fore to  ask  the  reader  to  make  the  effort  to  approach  the 
author  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  supposed  spirit  of  one 
of  his  o\vn  (one  of  the  author's)  fellow-countrymen.  If 
the  author  be  French,  remember  that,  as  it  is  to  French- 
men he  addresses  himself,  it  is  profitless  to  read  him  with- 
out a  certain  displacement  of  tradition.  If  he  be  German, 
reflect  in  the  same  way  that  it  was  far  from  his  business 
to  write  in  such  a  manner  as  would  conciliate  most  the 
habits  and  prejudices  of  the  English-speaking  mind. 
There  are  doubtless  many  people  all  ready  to  regard  them- 
selves as  injured  by  a  suggestion  that  they  should  for  the 
hour,  and  even  in  the  decent  privacy  of  the  imagination, 
comport  themselves  as  creatures  of  alien  (by  which  we 
usually  understand  inferior)  race.  To  them  it  is  only  to 
be  answered  that  they  had  better  never  touch  a  foreign 
book  on  any  terms,  but  lead  a  contented  life  in  the  homo- 
geneous medium  of  the  dear  old  mother-speech.    That  life, 


ii  INTRODUCTION 

by  compensation,  they  will  of  course  endeavor  to  make  as 
rich  as  possible;  and  there  is  one  question  they  will  always 
be  able  to  ask  without  getliing  an  immediate  answer,  so 
that  the  little  inquiry  will  retain  more  or  less  its  triumph- 
ant air.  "Why  should  we  concern  ourselves  so  much  about 
French  literature,  when  those  who  produce  it  concern 
themselves  so  little  about  ours?" 

That  strong  argument  will  always  be  in  order,  especially 
among  those  who  do  not  really  know  how  little  the  French 
are,  as  they  say,  preoccupied  with  English  and  American 
work;  and  on  some  occasions  it  will  be  supported  by  the 
further  inquiry:  "Is  not  the  very  perfection  of  French 
literature  to-day  an  exemplary  consequence  of  the  fact 
that  its  principal  exponents  stay  at  home  and  mind  their 
business — shut  their  doors  and  'take  care  of  (soigner) 
their  form?  They  don't  waste  lime,"  it  will  be  added, 
"in  superficial  excursions,  nor  have  they  any  confidence 
in  the  lessons  that  are  to  be  learned  beyond  the  frontier. 
Watch  them  a  little  and  you  will  see  plenty  of  examples 
of  that  want  of  confidence.  They  accept  their  own  order 
of  things  as  their  limit,  and  in  that  order  they  dig,  as  we 
know,  very  deep.  To  speak  only  of  fiction,  there  are  mul- 
titudes of  tales  by  English  and  American  vsTiters  which, 
profess  to  deal  with  French  and  with  Italian  life,  yet  prob- 
ably not  one  of  which,  unless  it  be  George  Eliot's  'Romola,' 
has  any  verisimilitude  or  any  value  for  Frenchmen  or  for 
Italians.  Few  indeed  are  the  works  of  fiction  which  they 
on  their  side  have  dedicated  to  the  portraiture  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  world;  and  great,  doubtless,  do  they  deem 
the  artistic  naivete  of  a  race  whiohi  can  content  itself  with 
that  sort  of  stuff  as  a  substitute  for  thoroughness."  Thus, 
it  will  be  seen,  the  very  "perfection"  of  French  literature 
(which  a  hundred  observers  will  also  of  course  contest) 
may,  oddly  enough,  be  offered  as  a  reason  for  having 
nothing  to  do  with  it. 

These  are  the  embroilments  of  a  flirtation — an  expres- 
sion which  is  really  the  only  proper  one  to  apply  to  our 
interest  in  the  "sort  of  stuff"  which  has  enabled  such  a 
writer  as  M.  Guy  de  Maupassant,  whose  name  I  have 
|)refixed  to  these  remarks,  to  be  possible.     To  a  serious 


INTRODUCTION  iii 

and  well-regulated  union  with  such  a  writer  the  American 
public  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  shrink  from  pretend- 
ing; but  nothing  need  prevent  it — not  even  the  sense  of 
danger  (often  it  must  be  said,  much  rather  an  incentive), 
from  enjoying  those  desultory  snatches  of  intercourse 
which  represent,  in  the  world  of  books,  the  broken  oppor- 
tunities of  Rosina  or  Juliet.  These  young  ladies,  it  is  true, 
eventually  went  much  further,  and  the  situation  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  reader,  when  craning  over  the  creaking  fourth 
or  fifth  balco'Py  of  a  translation,  must  be  understood  as 
that  to  which  the  romance  of  curiosity  would  have  been 
restricted  if  the  Guardian  and  the  Nurse — in  other  words 
public  opinion — had  succeeded  in  keeping  the  affair  within 
limits.  M.  de  Maupassant  is  an  Almaviva  who  strums  his 
guitar  with  the  expectation  of  raising  the  street,  and  he 
performs  most  skilfully  under  those  windows  fror*  which 
the  flower  of  attention  at  any  price  is  flung  down  to  him. 
If  he  is  a  capital  specimen  of  the  foreign  writer  with  whom 
the  critic  has  most  trouble,  there  could  at  the  same  time  be 
no  better  exhibition  of  the  force  which  sets  this  inquiring, 
admiring  spirit  in  motion. 

The  only  excuse  the  critic  has  lor  braving  the  embar- 
rassments I  have  mentioned  is  that  he  \Wshes  to  perform 
a  work  of  recommendation,  and  indeed  there  is  no  profit 
in  talking,  in  English,  of  M.  de  Maupassant  unless  it  be 
in  the  sense  of  recommending  him.  One  should  never  go 
out  of  one's  way  to  differ,  and  translation,  interpretation, 
the  business  of  adjusting  to  another  medium,  are  a  going 
out  of  one's  way.  Silence  is  the  best  disapproval,  and  to 
take  people  up,  with  an  earnest  grip,  only  to  put  them 
down,  is  to  add  to  the  vain  gesticulation  of  the  human 
scene.  That  reader  will  therefoi'e  be  most  intelligent  who, 
if  he  does  not  leave  M.  de  Maupassant  quite  alone,  makes 
him  a  present,  as  it  were,  of  the  conditions.  My  purpose 
was  to  enumerate  these,  but  I  shall  not  accomplish  it 
properly  if  I  fail  to  recognize  that  they  are  manifold. 

The  first  of  them  to  be  mentioned  is  doubtless  that  he 
came  into  the  literary  world,  as  he  himself  Ijas  related, 
under  the  protection  of  the  great  Flaubert.  This  was  but 
a  dozen  years  ago,  for  Guy  de  Maupassant  belongs,  among 


iv  '^  INTRODUCTION 

the  distinguished  Frenchmen  of  his  period,  to  the  new 
generation.  His  celebrity  has  been  gathered  in  a  short 
career,  and  his  experience,  which,  in  certain  ways,  sug- 
gests the  helping  hand  of  time,  in  a  rapid  life,  inasmuch  as 
he  was  born  in  1850.  These  things  go  fast  in  France,  and 
there  is  already  a  newer  generation  still,  with  its  dates 
and  its  notabilities;  but  we  need  scarcely  yet  open  a  paren- 
thesis for  the  so-called  decadents:  they  have  produced  no 
talent  that  seems  particularly  alive — to  do  so  would  indeed 
be  a  disloyalty  to  their  name.  Besides  tlie  link  of  the 
same  literary  ideal,  Gustave  Flaubert  had  with  his  young 
pupil  a  strong  community  of  local  sense — the  sap  of  the 
rich  old  Norman  country  was  in  the  veins  of  both.  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  there  is  a  large  element  in 
Maupassant  that  the  reader  will  care  for  in  proportion  as 
he  has  a  kindly  impression  of  the  large,  bountiful  Norman 
land,  with  its  abbeys  and  its  nestling  farms,  its  scented 
hedges  and  hard  white  roads,  where  thei  Sunday  blouse 
of  the  rustic  is  picked  out  in  color,  its  succulent  domestic 
life,  and  its  canny  and  humorous  peasantry.  There  is 
something  in  the  accumulated  heritage  of  such  a  province 
which  may  well  have  fed  the  imagination  of  an  artist 
whose  vision  was  to  be  altogether  of  this  life. 

That  is  another  of  M.  de  Maupassant's  conditions: 
what  is  clearest  to  him  is  the  immitigability  of  our  mortal 
predicament,  with  its  occasional  beguilements  and  its  in- 
numerable woes.  Flaubert  would  have  been  sorry  to  blur 
this  sha;rpness,  and  indeed  he  ministered  to  it  in  helping 
to  place  his  young  friend  in  possession  of  a  style  which 
completely  reflects  it.  Guy  de  Maupassant,  from  his  own 
account  (in  the  preface  to  "Pierre  et  Jean"),  devoted  much 
time  to  the  moral  that  to  prove  that  you  have  a  first-rate 
talent  you  must  have  a  first-rate  style.  He  therefore 
learned  to  write,  and  acquired  an  instrument  which  emits 
no  uncertain  sound.  He  is  Vv^onderfully  concise  and  direct, 
yet  at  the  same  time  it  would  be  difficult  to  characterize 
more  vividly.  To  have  color  and  be  sober  with  it  is  an 
ideal,  and  this  ideal  M.  de  Maupassant  constantly  touches. 
The  complete  possession  of  his  instrument  has  enabled  him 
to  attack  a  great  variety  of  subjects — usually  within  rigid 


INTRODUCTION  v 

limits  of  space.  He  has  accepted  the  necessity  of  being 
brief,  and  has  made  brevity  very  full,  through  making  it 
an  energetic  selection.  He  has  published  less  than  half  a 
dozen  novels  and  more  than  a  hundred  tales,  and  it  is 
upon  his  tales  that„his-r^ulaticn\\ill  mainly  rest.  The 
^loH  tale  IS  infinitely  relisiied  in  France,  which  can  show, 
in  this  form,  an  array  of  masterpieces;  and  no  small  part 
of  Maupassant's  success,  I  think,  comes  from^  his  country- 
men's pride  in  seeing  him  add  to  a  collection  which  is 
already  a  national  glory.  He  has  done  so,  as  I  say,-  by' 
putting  selection  really  upon  its  mettle— by  going,  in 
every  picture,  straight  to  the  strongest  ingredients,  and  to 
them  alone. 

The  turn  of  his  mind  has  helped  him  to  do  this,  an 
extraordinary  perceptive  apparatus  of  the  personal,  ma- 
terial, immed'ate  sort.  M.  de  Maupassant  takes  his  stand 
on  everything  that  solicits  the  sentient  creature  who  lives 
in  his  senses;  gives  the  impression  of  the  active,  inde- 
pendent observer  who  is  ashamed  of  none  of  his  faculties, 
describes  what  he  sees,  renders,  with  a  rare  reproduction  of 
tone,  what  he  hears,  and  is  more  anxious  to  see  and  to  hear 
than  to  m^ake  sure,  in  advance,  of  propping  up  some 
particular  theory  of  things.  He  has  indeed  a  theory  to 
the  effect  that  they  are  pretty  bad,  but  practically  the  air 
of  truth  in  the  given  case  is  pJmost  never  sacrificed  to  it. 
His  strong,  hard,  cynical,  slightly  cruel  humor  can  scarcely 
be  called  a  theory;  w'hat  one  may  say  of  this  rather  is 
that  his  drollery  is  a  direct  emanation  from,  the  facts,  and 
especially  from  the  rural  facts,  which  he  knmvs  with  ex- 
traordinary Imowledge.  His  most  brilliantly  clever  tales 
deal  with  the  life,  pervaded,  for  the  most  part,  by  a 
strong  smell  of  the  barn-yard  and  the  wine-shop,  of  the 
Norman  cottage  and  market-place.  Such  a  little  picture 
as  "La  Ficelle"  ("The  Piece  of  String")  is  a  pure  gem, 
so  caught  in  the  fact  are  the  whimsicalities  of  the  thick- 
witted  rustic  w^orld. 

For  "the  last  ten  years  M.  de  Maupassant  has  con- 
tributed an  almost  weeklv  nouvelle  to  some  Parisian  sheet 
which  has  allowed  him  a  luxurious  liberty.  They  have 
been  very  unequal,  too  numerous,  and  occasionally  bad 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

enough  to  be  by  an  inferior  hand  (an  inevitable  accident, 
in  copious  production) ;  but  they  have  contained  an  im- 
mense element  of  delightful  work.  Taken  all  together, 
they  are  full  of  life  (of  life  as  the  author  conceives  it,  of 
course — ^he  is  far  from  having  taken  its  measure  in  all 
directions),  and  between  the  lines  of  them  we  seem  to 
read  of  that  partly  pleasant  and  wholly  modem  invention, 
a  roving  existence  in  which,  for  art,  no  impression  is 
wasted.  M.  de  Maupassant  travels,  explores,  navigates, 
shoots,  goes  up  in  balloons,  and  writes.  He  treats  of  the 
north  and  of  the  south,  evidently  makes  "copy"  of  every- 
thing that  happens  to  him,  and,  in  the  interest  of  sudi 
copy  and  such  happenings,  ranges  from  Etretat  to  the 
depths  of  Algeria.  Lately  he  has  given  signs  of  adding  a 
new  cord  to  his  bow — a  silver  cord,  of  intenser  vibration. 
His  two  last  novels,  "Pierre  et  Jean"  and  "Fort  comme  la 
Mort,"  deal  with  shades  of  feeling  and  delicacies  of  ex- 
perience to  which  he  had  shown  himself  rather  a  stranger. 
They  are  the  work  of  an  older  man,  and  of  a  man  who 
has  achieved  the  feat  of  keeping  his  talent  fresh  when 
other  elements  have  turned  stale.  In  default  of  other 
convictions  it  may  still,  for  the  artist,  be  an  adequate 
working  faith  to  turn  out  something  fine.  Guy  de  Mau- 
passant is  a  striking  illustration  of  this  curious  truth  and 
of  the  practical  advantage  of  having  a  first-rate  ability. 
Such  a  gift  may  produce  surprises  in  the  mere  exercise  of 
its  natural  health.     The  dogmatist  is  never  safe  with  it. 

Henry  James. 
London,  August  6,  iS^^ 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Introduction i 

I     The  Home  by  the  Sea i 

II     Happy  Days 1 1 

III  M.  De  Lamare 15 

IV  Marriage  and  Disillusion   ....  28 
V     Corsica  and  a  New  Life  .      .      .      .      .  41 

VI     Disenchantment         53 

VII     Jeanne's  Discovery 69 

VIII     Maternity         92 

IX     Death  of  La  Baronne 103 

X     Retribution 122 

XI     The  Development  of  Paul    .      .      .      .  139 

XII     A  New  Home     . 160 

XIII  Jeanne  in  Paris 169 

XIV  Light  at  Eventide 182 


UNE  .VIE^  '.•-'•'-^^'^ 

OR,  THE  HISTORY  OF  A  HEART 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  HOME  BY  THE  SEA 


The  weather  was  most  distressing.  It  had  rained  all 
night.  The  roaring  of  the  overflowing  gutters  filled  the 
deserted  streets,  in  which  the  houses,  like  sponges,  ab- 
sorbed the  humidity,  which  penetrating  to  the  interior, 
made  the  walls  sweat  from  cellar  to  garret.  Jeanne  had 
left  the  convent  the  day  before,  free  for  all  time,  ready  to 
seize  all  the  joys  of  life,  of  which  she  had  dreamed  so 
long.  She  was  afraid  her  father  would  not  set  out  for  the 
new  home  in  bad  weather,  and  for  the  hundredth  time 
lirice  daybreak  she  examined  the  horizon.  Then  she  no- 
ticed that  she  had  omitted  to  put  her  calendar  in  her 
travelling  bag.  She  took  from  the  wall  the  little  card 
which  bore  in  golden  figures  the  date  of  the  current  year, 
1819.  Then  she  marked  with  a  pencil  the  first  four  col- 
"umns,  drawing  a  line  through  the  name  of  each  saint  up 
to  the  2d  of  May,  the  day  that  she  left  the  convent.  A 
voice  outside  the  door  called  "Jeannette."  Jeanne  replied, 
"Come  in,  papa."  And  her  father  entered.  Baron  Simon- 
Jacques.  Le  Perthuis  des  Vauds  was  a  gentleman  of  the 
last  century,  eccentric  and  good.  An  enthusiastic  disciple 
J  oTJean  Jacques  Rousseau,  he  had  the  tenderness  of  a  lover 

I 


2  UNE  VIE 

for  nature,  in  the  fields,  in  the  woods  and  in  the  animals. 
Of  aristocratic  birth,  he  hated  instinctively  the  year  1793, 
but  being  a  philosopher  by  temperament  and  liberal  by 
education,  he  execrated,  tyranny  with  an  inoffensive  and 
declamatory  hatred.  His  great  strength  and  his  great 
weakness  was  his  kind-h«artedness,  which  had  not  arms 
enough  to  caress,  to  give,  to  embrace;  the  benevolence  of 
a  god,  that  gave  freely,  without  questioning;  in  a  word,  a 
kindness  of  inertia  that  became  almost  a  vice.  A  man 
of  theory,  he  thought  out  a  plan  of  education  for  his 
daughter,  to  the  end  that  she  might  become  happy,  good, 
upright  and  gentle.  She  had  lived  at  |iome  until  the  age 
of  twelve,  when,  despite  the  tears  of  her  mother,  she  was 
placed  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  He  had  kept 
her  severely  secluded,  cloistered,  in  ignorance  of  the  secrets 
of  life.  He  wished  the  Sisters  to  restore  her  to  him  pure  at 
seventeen  years  of  age,  so  that  he  might  imbue  her  mind 
with  a  sort  of  rational  poetry,  and  by  means  of  the  fields, 
in  the  midst  of  the  fruitful  earth,  unfold  her  soul,  enlighten 
her  ignorance  through  the  aspect  of  love  in  nature,  through 
the  simple  tenderness  of  the  animals,  through  the  placid 
laws  of  existence.  She  was  leaving  the  convent  radiant, 
full  of  the  joy  of  life,  ready  for  all  the  happiness,  all  the 
charming  incidents  which  her  mind  had  pictured  in  her 
idle  hours  and  in  the  long,  quiet  nights.  She  was  like  a 
portrait  by  Veronese  with  her  fair,  glossy  hair,  which 
seemed  to  cast  a  radiance  on  her  skin,  a  skin  with  the 
faintest  tinge  of  pink,  softened  by  a  light  velvety  down 
which  could  be  perceived  when  the  sun  kissed  her  cheek. 
Her  eyes  were  an  opaque  blue,  like  those  of  Dutch  porce- 
lain figures.  She  had  a  tiny  mole  on  her  left  nostril  and 
another  on  the  right  of  her  chin.  She  was  tall,  well  de- 
veloped, with  willowy  figure.  Her  clear  voice  sounded  at 
times  a  little  too  sharp,  but  her  frank,  sincere  laugh  spread 
joy  around  her.  Often,  with  a  familiar  gesture,  she  would 
raise  her  hands  to  her  temples  as  if  to  arrange  her  hair. 


UNE  VIE  3 

She  ran  to  her  father  and  embraced  him  warmly. 
"Well,  are  we  going  to  start?"  she  said.  He  smiled,  shook 
his  head  and  said,  pointing  toward  the  window,  "How 
can  we  travel  in  such  weather?"  But  she  implored  in  a 
cajoling  and  tender  manner,  "Oh,  papa,  do  let  us  start. 
It  v;ill  clear  up  in  the  afternoon."  "But  your  mother  will 
never  consent  to  it."  "Yes,  I  promise  you  that  she  will, 
I  will  arrange  that."  "If  you  succeed  in  persuading  your 
mother,  I  am  perfectly  willing."  In  a  few  moments  she 
returned  from  her  mother's  room,  shouting  in  a  voice  that 
could  be  heard  all  through  the  house,  "Papa,  papa,  mamma 
is  willing.  Have  the  horses  harnessed."  The  rain  was  not 
abating;  one  might  almost  have  said  that  it  was  raining 
harder  when  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door.  Jeanne 
was  ready  to  step  in  when  the  baroness  came  downstairs, 
supported  on  one  side  by  her  husband  and  on  the  other  by 
a  tall  housemaid,  strong  and  strapping  as  a  boy.  She  was 
a  Norman  woman  of  the  country  of  Caux,  who  looked  at 
least  twenty,  although  she 'was  but  eighteen  at  the  most. 
She  was  treated  by  the  family  as  a  second  daughter,  for 
she  was  Jeanne's  foster  sister.  Her  name  was  Rosalie^ 
and  her  chief  duty  lay  in  guiding  the  steps  of  her  mistress,, 
who  had  grown  enormous  in  the  last  few^  years  and  also 
had  an  affection  of  the  heart,  which  kept  her  complaining 
continually.  The  baroness,  gasping  from  over-exertion, 
finall}'  reached  the  doorstep  of  the  old  residence,  looked 
at  the  court  w^here  the  w^ater  was  streaming  and  remarked: 
"It  really  is  not  wise."  Her  husband,  ahvays  pleasant, 
replied:  "It  was  you  who  desired  it,  Madame  Adelaide.'* 
He  always  preceded  her  pompous  name  of  Adelaide  with 
the  title  madame  with  an  air  of  half  respectful  mockery. 
Madame  mounted  with  difficulty  into  the  carriage,  causing 
all  the  springs  to  bend.  The  baron  sat  beside  her,  w^hile 
Jeanne  and  Rosalie  w^ere  seated  opposite,  with  their  backs 
to  the  horses.  Ludivine,  the  cook,  brought  a  heap  of  wraps 
to  put  over  their  knees  and  tw^o  baskets,  which  w^ere  placed 


4  UNE  VIE 

under  the  seats;  then  she  climbed  on  the  box  beside  Father 
Simon,  wrapping  herself  in  a  great  rug  which  covered  her 
completely.  The  porter  and  his  'wife  came  to  bid  them 
good-by  as  they  closed  the  carriage  door,  taking  the  last 
orders  about  the  trunks,  which  were  to  follow  in  a 
wagon.  So  they  started.  Father  Simon,  the  coachman, 
with  head  bowed  and  back  bent  in  the  pouring  rain,  was 
completely  covered  by  his  box  coat  with  its  triple  cape. 
The  howling  storm  beat  upon  the  carriage  windows  and 
inundated  the  highway. 

.  They  drove  rapidly  to  the  wharf  and  continued  along- 
side the  line  of  tall-masted  vessels  until  they  reached  the 
boulevard  of  Mont  Riboudet.  Then  they  crossed  the 
meadows,  where  from  time  to  time  a  drowned  willow,  its 
branches  drooping  limply,  could  be  faintly  distinguished 
through  the  mist  of  rain.  No  one  spoke.  Their  minds 
themselves  seemed  to  be  saturated  with  moisture  like  the 
earth. 

The  baroness  leaned  her  head  against  the  cushions  and 
closed  her  eyes.  The  baron  looked  out  with  mournful 
eyes  at  the  monotonous  and  drenched  landscape.  Rosalie, 
with  a  parcel  on  her  knee,  was  dreaming  in  the  dull 
reverie  of  a  peasant.  But  Jeanne,  under  this  downpour, 
felt  herself  revive  like  a  plant  that  has  been  shut  up  and 
has  just  been  restored  to  the  air,  and  so  great  was  her 
joy  that,  like  foliage,  it  sheltered  her  heart  from  sadness. 
Although  she  did  not  speak,  she  longed  to  burst  out  sing- 
ing, to  reach  out  her  hands  to  catch  the  rain  that  she 
might  drink  it.  She  enjoyed  to  the  full  being  carried  along 
rapidly  by  the  horses,  enjoyed  gazing  at  the  desolate  land- 
scape and  feeling  herself  under  shelter  amid  this  general 
inundation.  Beneath  the  pelting  rain  the  gleaming  backs 
of  the  two  horses  emitted  a  warm  steam. 

Little  by  little  the  baroness  fell  asleep,  and  presently 
began  to  snore  sonorously.  Her  husband  leaned  over  and 
placed  in  her  hands  a  little  leather  pocketbook. 


UNE  VIE     -  5 

This  awakened  her,  and  she  looked  at  the  pocketbook 
with  the  stupid,  sleepy  look  of  one  suddenly  aroused.  It 
fell  off  her  lap  and  sprang  open  and  gold  and  bank  bills 
were  scattered  on  the  floor  of  the  carriage.  This  roused 
her  completely,  and  Jeanne  gave  vent  to  her  mirth  in  a 
merry  peal  of  girlish  laughter. 

The  baron  picked  up  the  money  and  placed  it  on  her 
knees.  ''This,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "is  all  that  is  left  of 
my  farm  at  Eletot.  I  have  sold  it — so  as  to  be  able  to 
repair  the  'Poplars,'  where  we  shall  often  live  in  the  fu- 
ture." ) 

She  counted  six  thousand  four  hundred  francs  and 
quietly  put  them  in  her  pocket.  This  was  the  ninth  of 
thirty-one  farms  that  they  had  inherited  which  they  had 
sold  in  this  way.  Nevertheless  they  still  possessed  about 
twenty  thousand  livres  income  annually  in  land  rentals, 
which,  with  proper  care,  would  have  yielded  about  thirty 
thousand  francs  a  year. 

Living  simply  as  they  did,  this  income  would  have  suf- 
ficed had  there  not  been  a  bottomless  hole  always  in  their 
house — kind-hearted  generosity.  It  dried  up  the  money 
in  their  hands  as  the  sun  dries  the  water  in  marshes.  It 
flowed,  fled,  disappeared.  How?  No  one  knew.  Fre- 
quently one  would  say  to  the  other,  'T  don't  know  how 
it  happens,  but  I  have  spent  one  hundred  francs  to-day, 
and  I  have  bought  nothing  of  any  consequence."  This 
faculty  of  giving  was,  however,  one  of  the  greatest  pleas- 
ures of  their  life,  and  they  all  agreed  on  this  point  in  a 
superb  and  touching  manner. 

Jeanne  asked  her  father,  "Is  it  beautiful  now,  my 
castle?"  The  baron  replied,  "You  shall  see,  my  little 
girl." 

The  storm  began  to  abate.  The  vault  of  clouds  seemed 
to  rise  and  heighten  and  suddenly,  through  a  rift,  a  long 
ray  of  sunshine  fell  upon  the  fields,  and  presently  the 
clouds  separated,  showing  the  blue  firmament,  and  then, 


6  UNE  VIE 

like  the  tearing  of  a  veil,  the  opening  grew  larger  and  the 
beautiful  azure  sky,  clear  and  fathomless,  spread  over  the 
world.  A  fresh  and  gentle  breeze  passed  over  the  earth 
like  a  happy  sigh,  and  as  they  passed  beside  gardens  or 
woods  they  heard  occasionally  the  bright  chirp  of  a  bird 
as  he  dried  his  wings. 

Evening  was  approaching.  Everyone  in  the  carriage 
was  asleep  except  Jeanne.  They  stopped  to  rest  and  feed 
the  horses.  The  sun  had  set.  In  the  distance  bells  were 
heard.  They  passed  a  little  village  as  the  inhabitants 
were  lighting  their  lamps,  and  the  sky  became  also  illum- 
inated by  myriads  of  stars.  Suddenly  they  saw  behind 
a  hill,  through  the  branches  of  the  fir  trees,  the  moon  ris- 
ing, red  and  full  as  if  it  were  torpid  with  sleep. 

The  air  was  so  soft  that  the  windows  were  not  closed. 
Jeanne,  exhausted  with  dreams  and  happy  visions,  was 
now  asleep.  Finally  they  stopped.  Some  men  and  women 
were  standing  before  the  carriage  door  with  lanterns  in 
their  hands.  They  had  arrived.  Jeanne,  suddenly  awak- 
ened, was  the  first  to  jump  out.  Her  father  and  Rosalie 
had  practically  to  carry  the  baroness,  who  was  groaning 
and  continually  repeating  In  a  weak  little  voice,  "Oh,  my 
God,  my  poor  children!"  She  refused  all  offers  of  refresh- 
ment, but  went  to  bed  and  immediately  fell  asleep. 
Jeanne  and  her  father,  the  baron,  took  supper  together. 
They  were  in  perfect  sympathy  with  each  other.  Later, 
seized  with  a  childish  joy,  they  started  on  a  tour  of  in- 
spection through  the  restored  manor.  It  was  one  of  those 
high  and  vast  Norman  residences  that  comprise  both  farm- 
house and  castle,  built  of  white  stone  which  had  turned 
gray,  large  enough  to  contain  a  whole  race  of  people. 

An  immense  hall  divided  the  house  from  front  to  rear 
and  a  staircase  went  up  at  either  side  of  the  entrance,  meet- 
ing in  a  bridge  on  the  first  floor.  The  huge  drawing-room 
was  on  the  ground  floor  to  the  right  and  was  hung  with 
tapestries  representing  birds  and  foliage.    All  the  furniture 


UNE  VIE  (.'/ 


.^ 


was  covered  with  fine  needlework  tapestry  illustrating  La 
Fontaine's  fables,  and  Jeanne  was  delighted  at  finding  a 
chair  ,she  had  loved  as  a  child,  which  pictured  the  story 
of  "The  Fox  and  the  Stork." 

Beside  the  drawing-room  were  the  library,  full  of  old 
books,  and  two  unused  rooms;  at  the  left  was  the  dining- 
room,  the  laundry,  the  kitchen,  etc. 

A  corridor  divided  the  whole  first  floor,  the  doors  of  ten 
rooms  opening  into  it.  At  the  end,  on  the  right,  was 
Jeanne's  room.  She  and  her  father  went  in.  He  had  had 
it  all  newly  done  over,  using  the  furniture  and  draperies 
that  had  been  in  the  store-room. 

There  were  some  very  old  Flemish  tapestries,  with 
their  peculiar  looking  figures.  At  sight  of  her  bed,  the 
young  girl  uttered  a  scream  of  joy.  Four  large  birds 
carved  in  oak,  black  from  age  and  highly  polished,  bore 
up  the  bed  and  seemed  to  be  its  protectors.  On  the  sides 
were  carved  two  wide  garlands  of  flowers  and  fruit,  and 
four  finely  fluted  columns,  terminating  in  Corinthian  capi- 
tals, supported  a  cornice  of  cupids  with  roses  intertwined. 
The  tester  and  the  coverlet  were  of  antique  blue  silk,  em- 
broidered in  gold  fleur  de  lys.  When  Jeanne  had  suf- 
ficiently adrnire3ril",  she  lifted  up  the  candle  to  examine 
the  tapestries  and  the  allegories  they  represented.  They 
were  mostly  conventional  subjects,  but  the  last  hanging 
represented  a  drama.  Near  a  rabbit,  which  was  still  nib- 
bling, a  young  man  lay  stretched  out,  apparently  dead. 
A  young  girl,  gazing  at  him,  was  plunging  a  sword  into 
her  bosom,  and  the  fruit  of  the  tree  had  turned  black. 
Jeanne  gave  up  trying  to  divine  the  meaning  underlying 
this  picture,  when  she  saw  in  the  corner  a  tiny  little  animal 
which  the  rabbit,  had  he  lived,  could  have  swallowed  like 
a  blade  of  grass;  and  yet  it  was  a  lion.  Then  she  recog- 
nized the  story  of  "Pyramus  and  Thisbe,"  and  though 
she  smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  the  design,  she  felt  happy 
to  have  in  her  room  this  love  adventure  which  would 


8  UNE  VIE 

continually  speak  to  her  of  her  cherished  hopes,  and 
every  night  this  legendary  love  would  hover  about  her 
dreams. 

It  struck  eleven  and  the  baron  kissed  Jeanne  good- 
night and  retired  to  his  room.  Before  retiring,  Jeanne 
cast  a  last  glance  round  her  room  and  then  regretfully 
extinguished  the  candle.  Through  her  window  she  could 
see  the  bright  moonlight  bathing  the  trees  and  the  won- 
derful landscape.  Presently  she  arose,  opened  a  window 
and  looked  out.  The  night  was  so  clear  that  one  could  see 
as  plainly  as  by  daylight.  She  looked  across  the  park 
with  its  two  long  avenues  of  very  tall  poplars  that  gave 
its  name  to  the  chateau  and  separated  it  from  the  two 
farms  that  belonged  to  it,  one  occupied  by  the  Couillard 
family,  the  other  by  the  Martins.  Beyond  the  enclosure 
stretched  a  long,  uncultivated  plain,  thickly  overgrown 
with  rushes,  where  the  breeze  whistled  day  and  night. 
The  land  ended  abruptly  in  a  steep  white  cliff  three  hun- 
dred feet  high,  with  its  base  in  the  ocean  waves. 

Jeanne  looked  out  over  the  long,  undulating  surface 
that  seemed  to  slumber  beneath  the  heavens.  All  the 
fragrance  of  the  earth  was  in  the  night  air.  The  odor  of 
jasmine  rose  from  the  lower  windows,  and  light  whiffs  of 
briny  air  and  of  seaweed  were  wafted  from  the  ocean. 

Merely  to  breathe  was  enough  for  Jeanne,  and  the  rest- 
ful calm  of  the  country  jvas  like  a  soothing  bath.  She 
felt  as  though  her  heart  was  expanding  and  she  began 
dreaming  of  love.  What  was  it?  She  did  not  know.  She 
only  knew  that  she  would  adore  him  with  all  her  soul 
and  that  he  would  cherish  her  with  all  his  strength.  They 
would  walk  hand  in  hand  on  nights  like  this,  hearing  the 
beating  of  their  hearts,  mingling  their  love  with  the  sweet 
simplicity  of  the  summer  nights  in  such  close  communion 
of  thought  that  by  the  sole  power  of  their  tenderness  they 
would  easily  penetrate  each  other's  most  secret  thoughts. 
This  would  continue  forever  in  the  calm  of  an  enduring 


UNE  VIE  ^ 

affection.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  felt  Mm  there  beside 
her.  And  an  unusual  sensation  came  over  her.  She  re- 
mained long  musing  thus,  when  suddenly  she  thought 
she  heard  a  footstep  behind  the  house.  "If  it  were  he'' 
But  it  passed  on  and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  deceived. 
The  air  became  cooler.  The  day  broke.  Slowly  bursting 
aside  the  gleaming  clouds,  touching  with  fire  the  trees,  the 
plains,  the  ocean,  all  the  horizon,  the  great  flaming  orb 
of  the  sun  appeared. 

Jeanne  felt  herself  becoming  mad  with  happiness.  A 
delirious  joy,  an  infinite  tenderness  at  the  splendor  of 
nature  overcame  her  fluttering  heart.  It  was  her  sun, 
her  dawn!  The  beginning  of  her  life!  Thoroughly  fa- 
tigued at  last  she  flung  herself  down  and  slept  till  her 
father  called  her  at  eight  o'clock.  He  walked  into  the 
room  and  proposed  to  show  her  the  improvements  of  the 
castle,  of  her  castle.  The  road,  called  the  parish  road, 
connecting  the  farms,  joined  the  high  road  between  Havre 
and  Fecamp,  a  mile  and  a  half  further  on. 

Jeanne  and  the  baron  inspected  everything  and  returned 
home  for  breakfast.  When  the  meal  was  over,  as  the 
baroness  had  decided  that  she  would  rest,  the  baron  pro- 
posed to  Jeanne  that  they  should  go  down  to  Yport.  They 
started,  and  passing  through  the  hamlet  of  Etouvent,  where 
the  poplars  were,  and  going  through  the  wooded  slope  by 
a  winding  valley  leading  down  to  the  sea,  they  presently 
perceived  the  village  of  Yport.  Women  sat  in  their  door- 
ways mending  linen ;  brown  fish-nets  were  hanging  against 
the  doors  of  the  huts,  where  an  entire  family  lived  in  one 
room.  It  was  a  typical  little  French  fishing  village,  with 
all  its  concomitant  odors.  To  Jeanne  it  was  all  like  a  scen§ 
in  a  play.  On  turning  a  comer  they  saw  before  them  the 
limitless  blue  ocean.  They  bought  a  brill  from  a  fisherman 
and  another  sailor  offered  to  take  them  out  sailing,  re- 
peating his  name,  "Lastique,  Josephin  Lastique,"  several 
times,  that  they  might  not  forget  it,  and  the  baron  prom- 


10  UNE  VJE 


ised  to  remember.  They  walked  home,  chattering  like  two 
children,  carrying  the  big  fish  between  them,  Jeanne  hav- 
ing pushed  her  father's  walking  cane  through  its  gills. 


CHAPTER  II 

HAPPY   DAYS 

A  DELIGHTFUL  life  Commenced  for  Jeanne,  a  life  in  the 
open  air.  She  wandered  along  the  roads,  or  into  the  little 
winding  valleys,  their  sides  covered  with  a  fleece  of  gorse 
blossoms,  the  strong  sweet  odor  of  which  intoxicated  her 
like  the  bouquet  of  wine,  while  the  distant  sound  of  the 
waves  rolling  on  the  beach  seemed  like  a  billow  rocking 
her  spirit. 

A  love  of  solitude  came  upon  her  in  the  sweet  freshness 
of  this  landscape  and  in  the  calm  of  the  rounded  horizon, 
and  she  would  remain  sitting  so  long  on  the  hill  tops  that 
the  wild  rabbits  would  bound  by  her  feet. 

She  planted  memories  everywhere,  as  seeds  are  cast 
upon  the  earth,  memories  whose  roots  hold  till  death.  It 
seemed  to  Jeanne  that  she  was  casting  a  little  of  her  heart 
into  every  fold  of  these  valleys.  She  became  infatuated 
with  sea  bathing.  When  she  was  well  out  from  shore,  she 
would  float  on  her  back,  her  arms  crossed,  her  eyes  lost  in 
the  profound  blue  of  the  sky  which  was  cleft  by  the  flight 
of  a  swallow,  or  the  white  silhouette  of  a  seabird. 

After  these  excursions  she  invariably  came  back  to  the 
.   castle  pale  with  hunger,  but  light,  alert,  a  smile  on  her  lips 
and  her  eyes  sparkling  with  happiness. 

The  baron  on  his  part  was  planning  great  agricultural 
enterprises.  Occasionally,  also,  he  went  out  to  sea  with  the 
sailors  of  Yport.     On  several  occasions  he  went  fishing 

II 


12  UNE  VIE 

for  mackerel  and,  again,  by  moonlight,  he  would  haul  in 
the  nets  laid  the  night  before.  He  loved  to  hear  the  masts 
creak,  to  breathe  in  the  fresh  and  whistling  gusts  of  wind 
that  arose  during  the  night;  and  after  having  tacked  a 
long  time  to  find  the  buoys,  guiding  himself  by  a  peak  of 
rocks,  the  roof  of  a  belfry  or  the  Fecamp  lighthouse,  he 
delighted  to  remain  motionless  beneath  the  first  gleams  of 
the  rising  sun  which  made  the  slimy  backs  of  the  large 
fan-shaped  rays  and  the  fat  bellies  of  the  turbots  glisten 
on  the  deck  of  the  boat. 

At  each  meal  he  gave  an  enthusiastic  account  of  his 
expeditions,  and  the  baroness  in  her  turn  told  how  many 
times  she  had  walked  down  the  main  avenue  of  poplars. 

As  she  had  been  advised  to  take  exercise  she  made  a 
business  of  walking,  beginning  as  soon  as  the  air  grew 
warm.    Leaning  upon  Rosalie's  arm  and  dragging  her  left 
foot,  which  was  rather  heavier  than  the  right,  she  wan- 
dered interminably  up  and  down  from  the  house  to  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  sitting  down  for  five  minutes  at  either 
end.     The  walking  was  resumed  in   the  afternoon.     A 
physician,  consulted  ten  years  before,  had  spoken  of  hyper- 
trophy because  she  had  suffered  from  suffocation.     Ever 
since,  this  word  had  been  used  to  describe  the  ailment  of 
>:he  baroness.     The  baron  would  say  "my  wife's  hyper- 
trophy"  and  Jeanne   "mamma's   hypertrophy"   as   they 
would  have  spoken  of  h^  hat,  her  dress,  or  her  umbrella. 
She  had  been  very  pretty  in  her  youth  and  slim  as  a  reed. 
Now  she  had  grown  older,  stouter,  but  she  still  remained 
poetical,  having  always  retained  the  impression  of  "Co- 
rinne,"  which  she  had  read  as  a  girl.     She  read  all  the 
sentimental  love  stories  it  was  possible  to  collect,  and  her 
thoughts  wandered  among  tender  adventures  in  which  she 
always  figured  as  the  heroine.    Her  new  home  was  infin- 
itely pleasing  to  her  because  it  formed  such  a  beautiful 
framework  for  the  romance  of  her  soul,  the  surrounding 
woods,  the  waste  land,  and  the  proximity  of  the  ocean  re- 


UNE  VIE  13 

calling  to  her  mind  the  novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  which 
she  had  been  devouring  for  some  months.  On  rainy  days 
she  remained  shut  up  in  her  room,  sending  Rosalie  in  a 
special  manner  for  the  drawer  containing  her  "souvenirs," 
which  meant  to  the  baroness  all  her  old  private  and  family 
letters. 

Occasionally,  Jeanne  replaced  Rosalie  in  the  walks  with 
her  mother,  and  she  listened  eagerly  to  the  tales  of  the 
latter's  childhood.  The  young  girl  saw  herself  in  all  these 
romantic  stories,  and  was  astonished  at  the  similarity  of 
ideas  and  desires;  each  heart  imagines  itself  to  have  been 
the  first  to  tremble  at  those  very  sensations  that  awakened 
the  hearts  of  the  first  beings,  and  that  will  awaken  the 
hearts  of  the  last. 

One  afternoon  as  the  baroness  and  Jeanne  were  resting 
on  the  beach  at  the  end  of  the  walk,  a  stout  priest  who 
was  moving  in  their  direction  greeted  them  \vith  a  bow, 
while  still  at  a  distance.  He  bowed  when  within  three 
feet  and,  assuming  a  smiling  air,  cried:  "Well,  Madame  la 
Baronne,  how  are  you?"  It  was  the  village  priest.  The 
baroness  seldom  went  to  church,  though  she  liked  priests, 
from  a  sort  of  religious  instinct  peculiar  to  women.  She 
had,  in  fact,  entirely  forgotten  the  Abbe  Picot,  her  priest, 
and  blushed  as  she  saw  him.  She  made  apologies  for  not 
having  prepared  for  his  visit,  but  the  good  man  was  not 
at  all  embarrassed.  He  looked  at  Jeanne,  complimented 
her  on  her  appearance  and  sat  down,  placing  his  three- 
cornered  hat  on  his  knees.  He  was  very  stout,  very  red, 
and  perspired  profusely.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  every 
moment  an  enormous  checked  handkerchief  and  passed  it 
over  his  face  and  neck,  but  hardly  was  the  task  completed 
when  necessity  forced  him  to  repeat  the  process.  He  was 
a  typical  country  priest,  talkative  and  kindly. 

Presently  the  baron  appeared.  He  was  very  friendly 
to  the  abbe  and  invited  him  to  dinner.  The  priest  was 
well  versed  in  the  art  of  being  pleasant,  thanks  to  the  un- 


14  *-    ^     ^  UNE  VIE 

conscious  astuteness  which  the  guiding  of  souls  gives  to  the 
most  mediocre  of  men  who  are  called  by  the  chance  of 
events  to  exercise  a  power  over  their  fellows.  Toward 
dessert  he  became  quite  merry,  with  the  gaiety  that  fol- 
lows a  pleasant  meal,  and  as  if  struck  by  an  idea  he  said: 
"I  have  a  new  parishioner  whom  I  must  present  to  you, 
Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Lamare."  The  baroness,  who 
was  at  home  in  heraldry,  inquired  if  he  was  of  the  family 
of  Lamares  of  Eure.  The  priest  answered,  "Yes,  madame, 
he  is  the  son  of  Vicomte  Jean  de  Lamare,  who  died  last 
year."  After  this,  the  baroness,  who  loved  the  nobility 
above  all  other  things,  inquired  the  history  of  the  young 
vicomte.  He  had  paid  his  father's  debts,  sold  the  family 
castle,  made  his  home  on  one  of  the  three  farms  which  he 
owned  in  the  town  of  Etouvent.  These  estates  brought 
him  in  an  income  of  five  or  six  thousand  livres.  The 
vicomte  was  economical  and  lived  in  this  modest  manner 
for  two  or  three  years,  so  that  he  might  save  enough  to 
•cut  a  figure  in  society,  and  to  marry  advantageously,  with- 
out contracting  debts  or  mortgaging  his  farms.  The  priest 
added,  "He  is  a  very  charming  young  man,  so  steady  and 
quiet,  though  there  is  very  little  to  amuse  him  in  the  coun- 
try." The  baron  said,  "Bring  him  in  to  see  us,  Monsieur 
I'Abbe,  it  will  be  a  distraction  for  him  occasionally." 
After  the  coffee  the  baron  and  the  priest  took  a  turn  about 
the  grounds  and  then  returned  to  say  good-night  to  the 
ladies. 


CHAPTER  III 


M.   DE   LAMARE 


The  following  Sunday  the  baroness  and  Jeanne  went 
to  mass,  prompted  by  a  feeling  of  respect  for  their  pastor, 
and  after  service  waited  to  see  the  priest  and  invite  him 
to  luncheon  the  following  Thursday.  He  came  out  of  the 
sacristy  leaning  familiarly  on  the  arm  of  a  tall  young 
man.    As  soon  as  he  perceived  the  ladies,  he  exclaimed: 

"How  fortunate!  Allow  me,  baroness  and  Mile.  Jeanne, 
to  present  to  you  your  neighbor,  M,  le  Vicomte  de  La- 


mare." 


The  vicomte  said  he  had  long  desired  to  make  their 
acquaintance,  and  began  to  converse  in  a  well-bred  man- 
ner. He  had  a  face  of  which  women  dream  and  that  men 
dislike.  His  black,  wavy  hair  shaded  a  smooth,  sunburnt 
forehead,  and  two  large  straight  eyebrows,  that  looked 
almost  artificial,  cast  a  deep  and  tender  shadow  over  his 
dark  eyes,  the  whites  of  which  had  a  bluish  tinge. 

His  long,  thick  eyelashes  accentuated  the  passionate 
eloquence  of  his  expression  which  wrought  havoc  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  society,  and  made  peasant  girls  carrying 
baskets  turn  round  to  look  at  him.  The  languorous  fasci- 
nation of  his  glance  impressed  one  with  the  depth  of  his 
thoughts  and  lent  weight  to  his  slightest  words.  His 
beard,  fine  and  glossy,  concealed  a  somewhat  heavy  jaw. 

Two  days  later,  M.  de  Lamare  made  his  first  call,  just 
as  they  were  discussing  the  best  place  for  a  new  rustic 
bench.  The  vicomte  was  consulted  and  agreed  with  the 
baroness,  who  differed  from  her  husband. 


1 6  UNE  VIE 

M.  de  Lamare  expatiated  on  the  picturesqueness  of  the 
country  and  from  time  to  time,  as  if  by  chance,  his  eyes 
met  those  of  Jeanne,  and  she  felt  a  strange  sensation  at 
the  quickly  averted  glance  which  betrayed  tender  admi- 
ration and  an  awakened  sympathy. 

M.  de  Lamare's  father,  who  had  died  the  preceding 
year,  had  known  an  intimate  friend  of  the  baroness's 
father,  M.  Cultaux,  and  this  fact  led  to  an  endless  con- 
versation about  family,  relations,  dates,  etc.,  and  names 
heard  in  her  childhood  were  recalled,  and  led  to 
reminiscences. 

The  baron,  whose  nature  was  rather  uncultivated,  and 
whose  beliefs  and  prejudices  were  not  those  of  his  class^ 
knew  little  about  the  neighboring  families,  and  inquired 
about  them  from  the  vicomte,  who  responded: 

"Oh,  there  are  very  few  of  the  nobility  in  the  district,'^ 
just  as  he  might  have  said,  "there  are  very  few  rabbits  on 
the  hills,"  and  he  began  to  particularize:  There  was  the 
Marquis  de  Coutelier,  a  sort  of  leader  of  Norman  aris- 
tocracy, Vicomte  and  Vicomtesse  de  Briseville,  people  of 
excellent  stock,  but  living  to  themselves,  and  the  Comte  de 
Fourville,  a  kind  of  ogre,  who  was  said  to  have  made  his 
wife  die  of  sorrow,  and  who  lived  as  a  huntsman  in  his 
chateau  of  La  Vrillette,  built  on  a  pond.  There  were  a 
few  parvenus  among  them  who  had  bought  properties  here 
and  there,  but  the  vicomte  did  not  know  them. 

As  he  left,  his  last  glance  was  for  Jeanne,  as  if  it  were 
a  special  tender  and  cordial  farewell.  The  baroness  was 
delighted  with  him,  and  the  baron  said:  "Yes,  indeed,  he 
is  a  gentleman."  And  he  was  invited  to  dinner  the  fol- 
lowing week,  and  from  that  time  came  regularly. 

He  generally  arrived  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, went  to  join  the  baroness  in  "her  avenue,"  and  of- 
fered her  his  arm  while  she  took  her  "exercise,"  as  she 
called  her  daily  walks.  When  Jeanne  was  at  home  she 
would  walk  on  the  other  side  of  her  mother,  supporting 


UNE  VIE  17 

her,  and  all  three  would  walk  slowly  back  and  forth  from 
one  end  of  the  avenue  to  the  other.  He  seldom  addressed 
Jeanne  directly,  but  his  eye  frequently  met  hers. 

He  went  to  Yport  several  times  with  Jeanne  and  the 
baron.  One  evening,  when  they  were  on  the  beach,  Pere 
Lastique  accosted  him,  and  without  removing  his  pipe, 
the  absence  of  which  would  possibly  have  been  more  re- 
markable than  the  loss  of  his  nose,  he  said: 

"With  this  wind,  m'sieu  ^e  baron,  we  could  easily  go  to 
Etretat  and  back  to-morrow." 

Jeanne  clasped  her  hands  imploringly. 

"Oh,  papa,  let  us  do  it!" 

The  baron  turned  to  M.  de  Lamare: 

"Will  you  join  us,  vicomte?  We  can  take  breakfast 
down  there." 

And  the  matter  was  decided  at  once.  From  daybreak 
Jeanne  was  up  and  waiting  for  her  father,  who  dressed 
more  slowly.  They  walked  in  the  dew  across  the  level 
and  then  through  the  wood  vibrant  with  the  singing  of 
birds.  The  vicomte  and  Pere  Lastique  were  seated  on  a 
capstan. 

Two  other  sailors  helped  to  shove  off  the  boat  from 
shore,  which  was  not  easy  on  the  shingly  beach.  Once  the 
boat  was  afloat,  they  all  took  their  seats,  and  the  two 
sailors  who  remained  on  shore  shoved  it  off.  A  light, 
steady  breeze  was  blowing  from  the  ocean  and  they  hoisted 
the  sail,  veered  a  little,  and  then  sailed  along  smoothly 
with  scarcely  any  motion.  To  landward  the  high  cliff 
at  the  right  cast  a  shadow  on  the  water  at  its  base,  and 
patches  of  sunlit  grass  here  and  there  varied  its  monoto- 
nous whiteness.  Yonder,  behind  them,  brown  sails  were 
coming  out  of  the  white  harbor  of  Fecamp,  and  ahead  of 
them  they  saw  a  rock  of  curious  shape,  rounded,  with  gaps 
in  it  looking  something  like  an  immense  elephant  with  its 
trunk  in  the  water;  it  was  the  little  port  of  Etretat. 

Jeanne,  a  little  dizzy  from  the  motion  of  the  waves, 


i8  UNE  VIE 

held  the  side  of  the  boat  with  one  hand  as  she  looked  out 
into  the  distance.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  only  three  things 
in  the  world  were  really  beautiful:  light,  space,  water. 

No  one  spoke.  Pere  Lastique,  who  was  at  the  tiller, 
took  a  pull  every  now  and  then  from  a  bottle  hidden  under 
the  seat;  and  he  smoked  a  short  pipe  which  seemed  inex- 
tinguishable, although  he  never  seemed  to  relight  it  or 
refill  it. 

The  baron,  seated  in  the  bow,  looked  after  the  sail. 
Jeanne  and  the  vicomte  seemed  a  little  embarrassed  at 
being  seated  side  by  side.  Some  unknown  power  seemed 
to  make  their  glances  meet  whenever  they  raised  their 
eyes;  between  them  there  existed  already  that  subtle  and 
vague  sympathy  which  arises  so  rapidly  between  two 
young  people  when  the  young  man  is  good  looking  and 
the  g'^1  is  pretty.  They  were  happy  in  each  other's  so- 
ciety, perhaps  because  they  were  thinking  of  each  other. 
The  rising  sun  was  beginning  to  pierce  through  the  slight 
mist,  and  as  its  beams  grew  stronger,  they  were  reflected 
on  the  smooth  surface  of  the  sea  as  in  a  mirror. 

"How  beautiful!"  murmured  Jeanne,  with  emotion. 

"Beautiful  indeed!"  answered  the  vicomte.  The  serene 
beauty  of  the  morning  awakened  an  echo  in  their  hearts. 

And  all  at  once  they  saw  the  great  arches  of  Etretat, 
like  two  supports  of  a  cliff  standing  in  the  sea  high  enough 
for  vessels  to  pass  under^'them ;  while  a  sharp-pointed  white 
rock  rose  in  front  of  the  first  arch.  They  reached  shore, 
and  the  baron  got  out  first  to  make  fast  the  boat,  while 
the  vicomte  lifted  Jeanne  ashore  so  that  she  should  not 
wet  her  feet.  Then  they  walked  up  the  shingly  beach  side 
by  side,  and  they  overheard  Pere  Lastique  say  to  the 
baron,  "My!  but  they  would  make  a  pretty  couple!" 

They  took  breakfast  in  a  little  inn  near  the  beach,  and 
while  the  ocean  had  lulled  their  thoughts  and  m.ade  them 
silent,  the  breakfast  table  had  the  opposite  effect,  and 


UNE  VIE  19 

they  chattered  like  children  on  a  vacation.    The  slightest 
thing  gave  rise  to  laughter. 

Pere  Lastique,  on  taking  his  place  at  table,  carefully 
hid  his  lighted  pipe  in  his  cap.  That  made  them  laugh. 
A  fly,  attracted  no  doubt  by  his  red  nose,  persistently 
alighted  on  it,  and  each  time  it  did  so  they  burst  into 
laughter.  Finally  the  old  man  could  stand  it  no  longer, 
and  murmured:  "It  is  devilishly  persistent!"  whereupon 
Jeanne  and  the  vicomte  laughed  till  they  cried. 

After  breakfast  Jeanne  suggested  that  they  should  take 
a  walk.  The  vicomte  rose,  but  the  baron  preferred  to 
bask  in  the  sun  on  the  beach. 

"Go  on,  my  children,  you  will  find  me  here  in  an  hour." 

They  walked  straight  ahead  of  them,  passing  by  several 
cottages  and  finally  by  a  small  chateau  resembling  a  large 
farm,  and  found  themselves  in  an  open  valley  that  ex- 
tended for  some  distance.  They  now  had  a  wild  longing 
to  run  at  large  in  the  fields.  Jeanne  seemed  to  have  a 
humming  in  her  ears  from  all  the  new  and  rapidly  chang- 
ing sensations  she  had  experienced.  The  burning  rays  of 
the  sun  fell  on  them.  On  both  sides  of  the  road  the  crops 
were  bending  over  from  the  heat.  The  grasshoppers,  as 
numerous  as  the  blades  of  grass,  were  uttering  their  thin, 
shrill  cry. 

Perceiving  a  wood  a  little  further  on  to  the  right,  they 
walked  over  to  it.  They  saw  a  narrow  path  between  two 
hedges  shaded  by  tall  trees  whicli  shut  out  the  sun.  A 
sort  of  moist  freshness  in  the  air  was  perceptible,  giving 
them  a  sensation  of  chilliness.  There  was  no  grass,  owing 
to  the  lack  of  sunlight,  but  the  ground  was  covered  with 
a  carpet  of  moss. 

"See,  we  can  sit  down  there  a  little  while,"  she  said. 

They  sat  down  and  looked  about  them  at  the  numerous 
forms  of  life  that  were  in  the  air  and  on  the  ground  at 
their  feet,  for  a  ray  of  sunlight  penetrating  the  dense  fol- 
iage brought  them  into  its  light. 


20  UNE  VIE 

*^How  beautiful  it  is  here!  How  lovely  it  is  in  the 
country!  There  are  moments  when  I  should  like  to  be 
a  fly  or  a  butterfly  and  hide  in  the  flowers,"  said  Jeanne 
with  emotion. 

They  spoke  in  low  tones  as  one  does  in  exchanging  con- 
fidences, telling  of  their  daily  lives  and  of  their  tastes,  and 
declaring  that  they  were  already  disgusted  with  the  world, 
tired  of  its  useless  monotony;  it  was  always  the  same 
thing;  there  was  no  truth,  no  sincerity  in  it. 

The  world!  She  would  gladly  have  made  its  acquaint- 
ance; but  she  felt  convinced  beforehand  that  it  was  not 
equal  to  a  country  life,  and  the  more  their  hearts  seemed  '\ 
to  be  in  S3mipathy,  the  more  ceremonious  they  became, 
the  more  frequently  their  glances  met  and  blended  smil- 
ing; and  it  seemed  that  a  new  feeling  of  benevolence  was 
awakened  in  them,  a  wider  affection,  an  interest  in  a 
thousand  things  of  which  they  had  never  hitherto  thought. 

They  wended  their  way  back,  but  the  baron  had  al- 
ready set  off  on  foot  for  the  Chambre  aux  Demoiselles,  a 
grotto  in  a  cleft  at  the  summit  of  one  of  the  cliffs,  and 
they  waited  for  him  at  the  inn.  He  did  not  return  until 
five  in  the  evening  after  a  long  walk  along  the  cliffs. 

They  got  into  the  boat,  started  off  smoothly  with  the 
wind  at  their  backs,  scarcely  seeming  to  make  any  head- 
way. The  breeze  was  irregular,  at  one  moment  filling 
the  sail  and  then  lettiiTg  it  flap  idly  along  the  mast.  The 
sea  seemed  opaque  and  lifeless,  and  the  sun  was  slowly 
approaching  the  horizon.  The  lulling  motion  of  the  sea 
had  made  them  silent  again.  Presently  Jeanne  said,  "How 
I  should  love  to  travel!" 

"Yes,  but  it  is  tiresome  to  travel  alone;  there  should  be 
at  least  two,  to  exchange  ideas,"  answered  the  vicomte. 
She  reflected  a  moment, 

"That  is  true — I  like  to  walk  alone,  however — ^how 
pleasant  it  is  to  dream  all  alone " 

He  gazed  at  her  intently. 


UNE  VIE  21 

"Two  can  dream  as  well  as  one." 

She  lowered  her  eyes.  Was  it  a  hint?  Possibly.  She 
looked  out  at  the  horizon  as  if  to  discover  something  be- 
yond it,  and  then  said  slowly: 

"I  should  like  to  go  to  Italy — and  Greece — ah,  yes, 
Greece — and  to  Corsica,  it  must  be  so  wild  and  so  beau- 
tiful!" 

He  preferred  Switzerland  on  account  of  its  chalets  and 

its  lakes. 

"No,"  said  she,  "I  like  new  countries  like  Corsica,  or 
very  old  countries  full  of  souvenirs,  like  Greece.  It  must 
be  delightful  to  find  the  traces  of  those  peoples  whose  his- 
tory we  have  known  since  childhood,  to  see  places  where 
great  deeds  were  accomplished." 

The  vicomte,  less  enthusiastic,  exclaimed: 

"As  for  me,  England  attracts  me  very  much;  there  is 
so  much  to  be  learned  there." 

Then  they  talked  about  the  world  in  general,  discussing 
the  attractions  of  each  country  from  the  poles  to  the 
equator,  enthusing  over  imaginary  scenes  and  the  peculiar 
manners  of  certain  peoples  like  the  Chinese  and  the 
Lapps;  but  they  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  most 
beautiful  country  in  the  world  was  France,  with  its  tem- 
perate climate,  cool  in  summer,  mild  in  winter,  its  rich 
soil,  its  green  forests,  its  worship  of  the  fine  arts  which 
existed  nowhere  else  since  the  glorious  centuries  of  Athens. 
Then  they  were  silent.  The  setting  sun  left  a  wide  daz- 
zling train  of  light  which  extended  from  the  horizon  to  the 
edge  of  their  boat.  The  wdnd  subsided,  the  ripples  disap- 
peared, and  the  motionless  sail  was  red  in  the  light  of  the 
dying  day.  A  limitless  calm  seemed  to  settle  do\ATi  on 
space  and  make  a  silence  amid  the  conjunction  of  ele- 
ments; and  by  degrees  the  sun  slowly  sank  into  the 
ocean. 

Then  a  fresh  breeze  seemed  to  arise,  a  little  shiver  went 
over  the  surface  of  the  water,  as  if  the  engulfed  orb  cast 


22  UNE  VIE 

a  sigh  of  satisfaction  across  the  world.  The  twilight  was 
short,  night  fell  with  its  myriad  stars.  Pere  Lastique  took 
the  oars,  and  they  saw  that  the  sea  was  phosphorescent. 
Jeanne  and  the  vicomte,  side  by  side,  watched  the  fitful 
gleams  in  the  wake  of  the  boat.  They  were  hardly  think- 
ing, but  simply  gazing  vaguely,  breathing  in  the  beauty 
of  the  evening  in  a  state  of  delicious  contentment;  Jeanne 
had  one  hand  on  the  seat  and  her  neighbor's  finger  touched 
it  as  if  by  accident;  she  did  not  move;  she  was  surprised, 
happy,  though  embarrassed  at  this  slight  contact. 

When  she  reached  home  that  evening  and  went  to  her 
room,  she  felt  strangely  disturbed,  and  so  affected  that 
the  slightest  thing  impelled  her  to  weep.  She  looked  at 
her  clock,  imagining  that  the  little  bee  on  the  pendulum 
was  beating  like  a  heart,  the  heart  of  a  friend;  that  it  was 
aware  of  her  whole  life,  that  with  its  quick,  regular  tick- 
ings it  would  accompany  her  whole  life;  and  she  stopped 
the  golden  fly  to  press  a  kiss  on  its  wings.  She  would  have 
kissed  anything,  no  matter  what.  She  remembered  having 
hidden  one  of  her  old  dolls  of  former  days  at  the  bottom 
of  a  drawer;  she  looked  for  it,  took  it  out,  and  v/as  de- 
lighted to  see  it  again,  as  people  are  to  see  loved  friends; 
and  pressing  it  to  her  heart,  she  covered  its  painted  cheeks 
and  curly  wig  with  kisses.  And  as  she  held  it  in  her  arms, 
she  thought: 

Can  he  be  the  husban'd  promised  through  a  thousand 
secret  voices,  whom  a  superlatively  good  Providence  had 
thus  thrown  across  her  path?  Was  he,  indeed,  the  being 
created  for  her — the  being  to  whom  she  would  devote  her 
existence?  Were  they  the  two  predestined  beings  whose 
affection,  blending  in  one,  would  beget  love? 

She  did  not  as  yet  feel  that  tumultuous  emotion,  that 
mad  enchantment,  those  deep  stirrings  which  she  thought 
were  essential  to  the  tender  passion;  but  it  seemed  to  her 
she  was  beginning  to  fall  in  love,  for  she  sometimes  felt 
a  sudden  faintness  when  she  thought  of  him,  and  she 


UNE  VIE  23 

thought  of  him  incessantly.  His  presence  stirred  her 
heart ;  she  blushed  and  grew  pale  when  their  eyes  met,  and 
trembled  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

From  day  to  day  the  longing  for  love  increased.  She 
consulted  the  marguerites,  the  clouds,  and  coins  which 
she  tossed  in  the  air. 

One  day  her  father  said  to  her: 

*'Make  yourself  look  pretty  to-morrow  morning." 

''Why,  papa?" 

"That  is  a  secret,"  he  replied. 

And  when  she  came  downstairs  the  following  morning, 
looking  fresh  and  sweet  in  a  pretty  light  dress,  she  found 
the  drawing-room  table  covered  with  boxes  of  bonbons, 
and  on  a  chair  an  immense  bouquet. 

A  covered  wagon  drove  into  the  courtyard  bearing  the 
inscription,  "Lerat,  Confectioner,  Fecamp;  \Vedding 
Breakfasts,"  and  from  the  back  of  the  wagon  Ludivine 
and  a  kitchen  helper  were  taking  out  large  flat  baskets 
which  emitted  an  appetizing  odor. 

The  Vicomte  de  Lamare  appeared  on  the  scene,  his 
trousers  were  strapped  dovm  under  his  dainty  boots  of 
patent  leather,  which  m.ade  his  feet  appear  smaller.  His 
long  frock  coat,  tight  at  the  waist  line,  \vas  open  at  the 
bosom  showing  the  lace  of  his  ruffle,  and  a  fine  neckcloth 
wound  several  times  round  his  neck  obliged  him^to  hold 
erect  his  handsome  brown  head,  with  its  air  of  serious  dis- 
tinction. Jeanne,  in  astonishmert,  lookr-^  -^t  him  as 
though  she  had  never  seen  him  before.  She  thoiisjht  he 
looked  the  grand  sei.gneur  from  his  head  to  his  feet. 

He  bowed  and  said,  smiling: 
"Well,  comrade,  are  you  ready?" 
"But  what  is  it?    What  is  going  on?"  she  stammered. 
"You  will  know  presently,"  said  the  baron. 
The  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  Madame  Ade- 
laide, in  festall  array,  descended  the  staircase,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  Rosalie,  who  was  so  much  affected  at  the  sight 


24  UNE  VIE 

of  M.  de  Lamare's  elegant  appearance  that  the  baron 
whispered: 

"I  say,  vicomte,  I  think  our  maid  admires  you." 

The  vicomte  blushed  up  to  his  ears,  pretended  not  to 
have  heard  and,  taking  up  the  enormous  bouquet,  handed 
it  to  Jeanne.  She  accepted  it,  more  astonished  than  ever. 
They  all  four  got  into  the  carriage,  and  Ludivine,  who 
brought  a  cup  of  bouillon  to  the  baroness  to  sustain  her 
strength,  said: 

"Truly,  madame,  one  would  say  it  was  a  wedding!" 

They  alighted  as  soon  as  they  entered  Yport,  and  as 
they  walked  through  the  village  the  sailors,  in  their  new 
clothes,  still  showing  the  creases,  came  out  of  their  homes, 
and  shaking  hands  with  the  baron,  followed  the  party  as 
if  it  were  a  procession.  The  vicomte,  who  had  offered  his 
arm  to  Jeanne,  walked  with  her  at  the  head. 

When  they  reached  the  church  they  stopped,  and  an 
acolyte  appeared  holding  ur  "^ht  the  large  silver  crucifix, 
followed  by  another  boy  in  red  and  white,  who  bore  a 
chalice  containing  holy  water. 

Then  came  three  old  cantors,  one  of  them  limping;  then 
the  trumpet  ("serpent"),  and  last,  the  cure  with  his  gold 
embroidered  stole.  He  smiled  and  nodded  a  greeting; 
then,  with  his  eyes  half  closed  his  lips  moving  in  prayer, 
his  beretta  well  over  his  forehead,  he  followed  his  sur- 
pliced  bodyguard,  walking  in  the  direction  of  the  sea. 

On  the  beach  a  crowd  was  standing  around  a  new  boat 
wreathed  with  flowers.  Its  mast,  sail  and  ropes  were 
covered  with  long  streamers  of  ribbon  that  floated  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  name,  "Jeanne,"  was  painted  in  gold  let- 
ters on  the  stern. 

Pere  Lastique,  the  proprietor  of  this  boat,  built  with  the 
baron's  money,  advanced  to  meet  the  procession.  All  the 
men,  simultaneously,  took  off  their  hats,  and  a  row  of 
pious  persons  wearing  long  black  cloaks  falling  in  large 


UNE  VIE  25 

folds  from  their  shoulders,  knelt  down  in  a  circle  at  sight 
of  the  crucifix. 

The  cure  walked,  with  an  acolyte  on  either  side  of  him, 
to  one  end  of  the  boat,  while  at  the  other  end,  the  three 
old  cantors,  in  their  white  surplices,  with  a  serious  air  and 
their  eyes  fixed  on  the  psalter,  sang  at  the  top  of  their 
voices  in  the  clear  morning  air.  Each  time  they  stopped 
to  take  breath,  the  "serpent"  continued  its  bellowing  alone, 
and  as  he  puffed  out  his  cheeks  the  musician's  little  gray 
eyes  di^ppeared,  and  the  skin  of  his  forehead  and  neck 
seemed  to  distend. 

The  motionless,  transparent  sea  seemed  to  be  taking 
part  meditatively  in  the  baptism  of  this  boat,  rolling  its 
tiny  waves,  no  higher  than  a  finger,  with  the  faint  sound  of 
a  rake  on  the  shingle.  And  the  big  white  gulls,  with  their 
wings  unfurled,  circled  about  in  the  blue  heavens,  flying 
off  and  then  coming  back  in  a  curve  above  the  heads  of 
the  kneeling  crowd,  as  if  to  see  what  they  were  doing. 

The  singing  ceased  after  an  Amen  that  lasted  five  min- 
utes; and  the  priest,  in  an  unctuous  voice,  murmured  some 
Latin  words,  of  which  one  could  hear  only  the  sonorous 
endings.  He  then  walked  round  the  boat,  sprinkling  it 
with  holy  water,  and  next  began  to  murmur  the  "Oremus," 
standing  alongside  the  boat  opposite  the  sponsors,  who 
remained  motionless,  hand  in  hand. 

The  vicomte  had  the  usual  grave  expression  on  his 
handsome  face,  but  Jeanne,  choking  with  a  sudden  emo 
tion,  and  on  the  verge  of  fainting,  began  to  tremble  so  vio- 
olentlv  that  her  teeth  chattered.  The  dream  that  had 
haunted  her  for  some  time  was  suddenly  beginning,  as  if 
in  a  kind  of  hallucination,  to  take  the  appearance  of 
reality.  They  had  spoken  of  a  wedding,  a  priest  was 
present,  blessing  them;  men  in  surplices  ^vere  singing 
psalms;  was  it  not  she  whom  they  were  giving  in  mar- 
riage? 


26  UNE  VIE 

Did  her  fingers  send  out  an  electric  shock,  did  the 
emotion  of  her  heart  follow  the  course  of  her  veins  until 
it  reached  the  heart  of  her  companion?  Did  he  under- 
stand, did  he  guess,  was  he,  like  herself,  pervaded  by  a  sort 
of  intoxication  of  love?  Or  else,  did  he  know  by  experi- 
ence, alone,  that  no  woman  could  resist  him?  She 
suddenly  noticed  that  he  was  squeezing  her  hand,  gently 
at  first,  and  then  tighter,  tighter,  till  he  almost  crushed  it. 
And  without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face,  without  anyone 
perceiving  it,  he  said — yes,  he  certainly  said: 

"Oh,  Jeanne,  if  you  would  consent,  this  would  be  our 
betrothal." 

She  lowered  her  head  very  slowly,  perhaps  meaning  it 
for  "yes."  And  the  priest,  who  was  still  sprinkling  the 
holy  water,  sprinkled  some  on  their  fingers. 

The  ceremony  was  over.  The  women  rose.  The  return 
was  unceremonious.  The  crucifix  had  lost  its  dignity  in 
the  hands  of  the  acolyte,  who  walked  rapidly,  the  crucifix 
swaying  to  right  and  left,  or  bending  forward  as  though 
it  would  fall.  The  priest,  who  was  not  praying  now, 
walked  hurriedly  behind  them;  the  cantors  and  the  mu- 
sician with  the  "serpent"  had  disappeared  by  a  narrow 
street,  so  as  to  get  off  their  surplices  without  delay;  and 
the  sailors  hurried  along  in  groups.  One  thought  prompted 
their  haste,  and  made  their  mouths  water. 

A  good  breakfast  was  awaiting  them  at  "The  Poplars." 

The  large  table  was  set  in  the  courtyard,  under  the 
apple  trees. 

Sixty  people  sat  fdown  to  table,  sailors  and  peasants. 
The  baroness  in  the  middle,  with  a  priest  at  either  side 
of  her,  one  from  Yport,  and  the  other  belonging  to  "The 
Poplars."  The  baron  seated  opposite  her  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  the  mayor  on  one  side  of  him,  and  his 
wife,  a  thin  peasant  woman,  already  aging,  who  kept 
smiling  and  bowing  to  all  around  her,  on  the  other. 

Jeanne  seated  beside  her  co-sponsor,  was  in  a  sea  of 


UNE  VIE  27 

happiness.  She  saw  nothing,  knew  nothing,  and  remained 
silent,  her  mind  bewildered  with  joy. 

Presently  she  said: 

"What  is  your  Christian  name?" 

"Julien,"  he  replied.     "Did  you  not  know?" 

But  she  made  no  reply,  thinking  to  herself. 

"How  often  I  shall  repeat  that  name!" 

When  the  feast  was  over,  the  courtyard  was  given  up 
to  the  sailors,  and  the  others  went  over  to  the  other  side 
of  the  chateau.  The  baroness  began  to  take  her  exercise, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  baron  and  accompanied  by  the 
two  priests.  Jeanne  and  Julien  went  toward  the  wood 
and  walked  along  one  of  the  mossy  paths.  Suddenly 
seizing  her  hands,  the  vicomte  said: 

"Tell  me,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 

She  lowered  her  head,  and  as  he  stammered:  "Answer 
me,  I  implore  you! "  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  timidly,  and 
he  read  his  answer  there. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARRIAGE   AND   DISILLUSION 

The  baron,  one  morning,  entered  Jeanne's  room  before 
she  was  up,  and  sitting  down  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  said: 

"M.  le  Vicomte  de  Lamare  has  asked  us  for  your  hand 
in  marriage." 

She  wanted  to  hide  her  face  under  the  sheets. 

Her  father  continued: 

"We  have  postponed  our  answer  for  the  present." 

She  gasped,  choking  with  emotion.  At  the  end  of  a 
minute  the  baron,  smihng,  added: 

"We  did  not  wish  to  do  anything  without  consulting 
you.  Your  mother  and  I  are  not  opposed  to  this  marriage, 
but  we  would  not  seek  to  influence  you.  You  are  much 
richer  than  he  is;  but,  when  it  is  a  question  of  the  hap- 
piness of  a  life,  one  should  not  think  too  much  about 
money.  He  has  no  relations  left.  If  you  marry  him,  then, 
it  would  be  as  if  a  son  should  come  into  our  family;  if  it 
were  anyone  else,  it  would  be  you,  our  daughter,  who 
would  go  among  strangers.  The  young  fellow  pleases  us. 
Would  he  please  you?" 

She  stammered,  blushing  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair: 

"I  am  willing,  papa." 

And  the  father,  looking  into  her  eyes  and  still  smiling, 
murmured : 

"I  half  suspected  it,  young  lady." 

She  lived  till  evening  in  a  condition  of  exhilaration,  not 

28 


UNE  VIE  29 

knowing  what  she  was  doing,  mechanically  thinking  of 
one  thing  by  mistake  for  another,  and  with  a  feeling  of 
weariness,  although  she  had  not  walked  at  all. 

Toward  six  o'clock,  as  she  was  sitting  with  her  mother 
under  the  plane  tree,  the  vicomte  appeared. 

Jeanne's  heart  began  to  throb  wildly.  The  young  man 
approached  them  apparently  without  any  emotion.  When 
he  was  close  beside  them,  he  took  the  baroness'  hand  and 
kissed  her  fingers,  then  raising  to  his  lips  the  trembling 
hand  of  the  young  girl,  he  imprinted  upon  it  a  long,  ten- 
der and  grateful  kiss. 

And  the  radiant  season  of  betrothal  commenced.  They 
would  chat  together  alone  in  the  comer  of  the  parlor,  or 
else  seated  on  the  moss  at  the  end  of  the  wood  overlooking 
the  plain.  Sometimes  they  walked  in  Little  Mother's 
Avenue;  he,  talking  of  the  future,  she,  with  her  eyes  cast 
down,  looking  at  the  dusty  footprints  of  the  baroness. 

Once  the  matter  was  decided,  they  desired  to  waste  no 
time  in  preliminaries.  It  was,  therefore,  decided  that  the 
ceremony  should  take  place  in  six  weeks,  on  the  fifteenth 
of  August;  and  that  the  bride  and  groom  should  set  out 
iniilxtdiately  on  their  wedding  journey.  Jeanne,  on  being 
consulted  as  to  which  country  she  would  like  to  visit,  de- 
cided on  Corsica  where  they  could  be  more  alone  than  in 
the  cities  of  Italy. 

They  awaited  the  moment  appointed  for  their  marriage 
without  too  great  impatience,  but  enfolded,  lost  in  a  de- 
licious affection,  expressed  in  the  exquisite  charm  of  insig- 
nificant caresses,  pressure  of  hands,  long  passionate  glances 
in  which  their  souls  seemed  to  blend;  and,  vaguely  tor- 
tured by  an  uncertain  longing  for  they  knew  not  what. 
They  decided  to  invite  no  one  to  the  wedding  except 
Aunt  Lison,  the  baron's  sister,  who  boarded  in  a  convent 
at  'ersailles.  After  the  death  of  their  father,  the  baroness 
wished  to  keep  her  sister  with  her.  But  the  old  maid, 
possessed  by  the  idea  that  she  was  in  every  one's  way, 


30  UNE  VIE 

was  useless,  and  a  nuisance,  retired  into  one  of  those  re- 
ligious houses  that  rent  apartments  to  people  that  live  a 
sad  and  lonely  existence.  She  came  from  time  to  time 
to  pass  a  month  or  two  with  her  family. 

She  was  a  little  woman  of  few  words,  who  always  kept 
in  the  background,  appeared  only  at  mealtimes,  and  then 
retired  to  her  room  where  she  remained  shut  in. 

She  looked  like  a  kind  old  lady,  though  she  was  only 
forty-two,  and  had  a  sad,  gentle  expression.  She  was 
never  made  much  of  by  her  family  as  a  child,  being  neither 
pretty  nor  boisterous,  she  was  never  petted,  and  she  would 
stay  quietly  and  gently  in  a  comer.  She  had  been  neg- 
lected ever  since.  As  a  young  girl  nobody  paid  any  at- 
tention to  her.  She  was  something  like  a  shadow,  or  a 
familiar  object,  a  living  piece  of  furniture  that  one  is  ac- 
customed to  see  every  day,  but  about  which  one  does  not 
trouble  oneself. 

Her  sister,  from  long  habit,  looked  upon  her  as  a  fail- 
ure, an  altogether  insignificant  being.  They  treated  her 
with  careless  familiarity  which  concealed  a  sort  of  con- 
temptuous kindness.  She  called  herself  Lise,  and  seemed 
embarrassed  at  this  frivolous  youthful  name.  When  they 
saw  that  she  probably  would  not  marry,  they  changed  it 
from  Lise  to  Tison,  and  since  Jeanne's  birth,  she  had  be- 
come "Aunt  Lison,"  a  poor  relation,  very  neat,  frightfully 
timid,  even  with  her  sister  and  her  brother-in-law,  who 
loved  her,  but  with  an  uncertain  affection  verging  on  in- 
difference, with  an  unconscious  compassion  and  a  natural 
benevolence. 

Sometimes,  when  the  baroness  talked  of  far  away  things 
that  happened  in  her  youth,  she  would  say,  in  order  to 
fix  a  date:  "It  was  the  time  that  Lison  had  that  attack." 

They  never  said  more  than  that;  and  this  "attack"  re- 
mained shrouded,  as  in  a  mist. 

One  evening,  Lise,  who  was  then  twenty,  had  thrown 
herself  into  the  water,  no  one  knew  why.    Nothing  in  her 


UNE  VIE  31 

life,  her  manner,  gave  any  intimation  of  this  seizure.  They 
fislied  her  out  half  dead,  and  her  parents,  raising  their 
hands  in  horror,  instead  of  seeking  the  mysterious  cause 
of  this  action,  had  contented  themselves  with  calling  it 
"that  attack,"  as  if  they  were  talking  of  the  accident  that 
happened  to  the  horse  "Coco,"  who  had  broken  his  leg 
a  short  time  before  in  a  ditch,  and  whom  they  had  been 
obliged  to  kill. 

From  that  time  Lise,  presently  Lison,  was  considered 
feeble-minded.  The  gentle  contempt  which  she  inspired 
in  her  relations  gradually  made  its  way  into  the  minds  of 
all  those  who  surrounded  her.  Little  Jeanne  herself,  with 
the  natural  instinct  of  children,  took  no  notice  of  her, 
never  went  up  to  kiss  her  good-night,  never  went  into  her 
room.  Good  Rosalie,  alone,  who  gave  the  room  all  the 
necessary  attention,  seemed  to  know  where  it  was  situ- 
ated. 

When  Aunt  Lison  entered  the  dining-room  for  breakfast, 
the  little  one  would  go  up  to  her  from  habit  and  hold  up 
her  forehead  to  be  kissed;  that  was  all. 

If  anyone  wished  to  speak  to  her,  they  sent  a  servant 
to  call  her,  and  if  she  was  not  there,  they  did  not  bother 
about  her,  never  thought  of  her,  never  thought  of  troubling 
themselves  so  much  as  to  say: 

"Why,  I  have  not  seen  Aunt  Lison  this  morning!" 

When  they  said  "Aunt  Lison,"  these  two  words  awak- 
ened no  feeling  of  affection  in  anyone's  mind.  It  was  as 
if  one  had  said:  "The  coffee  pot,  or  the  sugar  bowl." 

She  always  walked  with  little,  quick,  silent  steps,  never 
made  a  noise,  never  knocking  up  against  anything;  and 
seemed  to  communicate  to  surrounding  objects  the  faculty 
of  not  making  any  sound.  Her  hands  seemed  to  be  made 
of  a  kind  of  wadding,  she  handled  everything  so  lightly 
and  delicately. 

She  arrived  about  the  middle  of  July,  all  upset  at  the 
idea  of  this  marriage.    She  brought  a  quantity  of  presents 


32  UNE  VIE 

which,  as  they  came  from  her,  remained  almost  unnoticed. 
On  the  following  day  they  had  forgotten  she  was  there 
at  all. 

But  an  unusual  emotion  was  seething  in  her  mind,  and 
she  never  took  her  eyes  off  the  engaged  couple.  She  inter- 
ested herself  in  Jeanne's  trousseau  with  a  singular  eager- 
ness, a  feverish  activity,  working  like  a  simple  seamstress 
in  her  room,  where  no  one  came  to  visit  her. 

She  was  continually  presenting  the  baroness  with  hand- 
kerchiefs she  had  hemmed  herself,  towels  on  which  she 
had  embroidered  a  monogram,  saying  as  she  did  so:  "Is 
that  all  right,  Adelaide?"  And  little  mother,  as  she  care- 
lessly examined  the  objects,  would  reply:  "Do  not  give 
yourself  so  much  trouble,  my  poor  Lison." 

One  evening,  toward  the  end  of  the  month,  after  an 
oppressively  warm  day,  the  moon  rose  on  one  of  those 
clear,  mild  nights  which  seem  to  move,  stir  and  affect  one, 
apparently  awakening  all  the  secret  poetry  of  one's  soul. 
The  gentle  breath  of  the  fields  was  wafted  into  the  quiet 
drawing-room.  The  baroness  and  her  husband  were  play- 
ing cards  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  and  Aunt  Lison  was  sit- 
ting beside  them  knitting ;  while  the  young  people,  leaning 
on  the  window  sill,  were  gazing  out  at  the  moonlit  gar- 
den. 

The  linden  and  the  plane  tree  cast  their  shadows  on  the 
lawn  which  extended  beyond  it  in  the  moonlight,  as  far  as 
the  dark  wood.  Attracted  by  the  tender  charm  of  the 
night,  and  by  this  misty  illumination  that  lighted  up  the 
trees  and  the  bushes,  Jeanne  turned  toward  her  parents 
and  said: 

"Little  father,  we  are  going  to  take  a  short  stroll  on  the 
grass  in  front  of  the  house." 

The  baron  replied,  without  looking  up:  "Go,  my  chil- 
dren," and  continued  his  game. 

They  went  out  and  began  to  walk  slowly  along  the 
moonlit  lawn  as  far  as  the  little  wood  at  the  end.    The 


UNE  VIE  33 

hour  grew  late  and  they  did  not  think  of  going  in.    The 
baroness  grew  tired,  and  wishing  to  retire,  she  said: 

"We  must  call  the  lovers  in." 

The  baron  cast  a  glance  across  the  spacious  garden 
where  the  two  forms  were  wandering  slowly. 

"Let  them  alone,"  he  said;  "it  is  so  delicious  outside! 
Lison  will  wait  for  them,  will  you  not,  Lison?" 

The  old  maid  raised  her  troubled  eyes  and  replied  in  her 
timid  voice: 

"Certainly,  I  will  wait  for  them.'^ 

Little  father  gave  his  hand  to  the  baroness,  weary  him- 
self from  the  heat  of  the  day, 

"I  am  going  to  bed,  too,"  he  said,  and  went  up  with  his 
wife. 

Then  Aunt  Lison  rose  in  her  turn,  and  leaving  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair  her  canvas  with  the  wool  and  the  knit- 
ting needles,  she  went  over  and  leaned  on  the  window  sill 
and  gazed  out  at  the  night. 

The  two  lovers  kept  on  walking  back  and  forth  between 
the  house  and  the  wood.  They  squeezed  each  other's 
fingers  without  speaking,  as  though  they  had  left  their 
bodies  and  formed  part  of  this  visible  poetry  that  exhaled 
from  the  earth. 

All  at  once  Jeanne  perceived,  framed  in  the  window,  the 
silhouette  ^f  the  aunt,  outlined  by  the  light  of  the  lamp 
behind  her. 

"See,"  she  said,  "there  is  Aunt  Lison  looking  at  us." 

The  vicomte  raised  his  head,  and  said  in  an  indifferent 
tone  without  thinking: 

"Yes,  Aunt  Lison  is  looking  at  us." 

And  they  continued  to  dream,  to  walk  slowly,  and  to 
love  each  other.  But  the  dew  w^s  falling  fast,  and  the 
dampness  made  them  shiver  a  little. 

"Let  us  go  in  now,"  said  Jeanne.  And  they  went  into 
the  house. 

When  they  entered  the  drawing-room.  Aunt  Lison  had 


34  UNE  VIE 

gone  back  to  her  work.    Her  head  was  bent  over  her  work, 
and  her  fingers  were  trembling  as  if  she  were  very  tired. 

"It  is  time  to  go  to  bed,  aunt,"  said  Jeanne,  approach- 
ing her. 

Her  aunt  turned  her  head,  and  her  eyes  were  red  as  if 
she  had  been  crying.  The  young  people  did  not  notice  it; 
but  suddenly  M.  de  Lamare  perceived  that  Jeannie's  thin 
shoes  were  covered  with  dew.  He  was  worried,  and  asked 
tenderly: 

"Are  not  your  dear  little  feet  cold?" 

All  at  once  the  old  lady's  hands  shook  so  violently  that 
she  let  fall  her  knitting,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands, 
she  began  to  sob  convulsively. 

The  engaged  couple  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  with- 
out moving.  Suddenly  Jeanne  fell  on  her  knees,  and  tak- 
ing her  aunt's  hands  away  from  her  face,  said  in  per- 
plexity: 

"WTiy,  what  is  the  matter,  Aunt  Lison?" 

Then  the  poor  woman,  her  voice  full  of  tears,  and  her 
whole  body  shaking  with  sorrow,  replied: 

"It  was  when  he  asked  you — are  not  your — your — dear 
little  feet  cold? — no  one  ever  said  such  things  to  me — to 
me — never — never " 

Jeanne,  surprised  and  compassionate,  could  still  hardly 
help  laughing  at  the  idea  of  an  admirer  showing  tender 
solicitude  for  Lison;  and  tEe  vicomte  had  turned  away  to 
conceal  his  mirth. 

But  the  aunt  suddenly  rose,  laying  her  ball  of  wool 
on  the  floor  and  her  knitting  in  the  chair,  and  fled  to  her 
room,  feeling  her  way  up  the  dark  staircase. 

Left  alone,  the  young  people  looked  at  one  another, 
amused  and  saddened.  Jeanne  murmured:  "Poor  aunt!" 
Julien  replied:  "She  must  be  a  little  crazy  this  evening." 

They  held  each  other's  hands  and  presently,  gently, 
very  gently,  they  exchanged  their  first  kiss,  and  by  the 
following  day  had  forgotten  all  about  Aunt  Lison's  tears. 


UNE  VIE  35 

The  two  weeks  preceding  the  wedding  found  Jeanne 
very  calm,  as  though  she  were  weary  of  tender  emotions. 
She  had  no  time  for  reflection  on  the  morning  of  the 
eventful  day.  She  was  only  conscious  of  a  feeling  as  if 
her  flesh,  her  bones  and  her  blood  had  all  melted  beneath 
her  skin,  and  on  taking  hold  of  anything,  she  noticed  that 
her  fingers  trembled. 

She  did  not  regain  her  self-possession  until  she  was 
in  the  chancel  of  the  church  during  the  marriage  ceremony. 

Married!  So  she  was  married!  All  that  had  occurred 
since  daybreak  seemed  to  her  a  dream,  a  waking  dream. 
There  are  such  moments,  when  ail  appears  changed 
around  us;  even  our  motions  seem  to  have  a  new  mean- 
ing; even  the  hours  of  the  day,  which  seem  to  be  out  of 
their  usual  time.  She  felt  bewildered,  above  all  else,  be- 
wildered. Last  evening  nothing  had  as  yet  been  changed 
in  her  life;  the  constant  hope  of  her  life  seemed  only 
nearer,  almost  within  reach.  She  had  gone  to  rest  a  young 
girl ;  she  was  now  a  married  woman.  She  had  crossed  that 
boundary  that  seems  to  conceal  the  future  with  all  its 
joys,  its  dreams  of  happiness.  She  felt  as  though  a  door 
had  opened  in  front  of  her ;  she  was  about  to  enter  into  the 
fulfillment  of  her  expectations. 

Wlien  they  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  church 
after  the  ceremony,  a  terrific  noise  caused  the  bride  to 
start  in  terror,  and  the  baroness  to  scream;  it  was  a  rifle 
salute  given  by  the  peasants,  and  the  firing  did  not  cease 
until  they  reached  "The  Poplars." 

After  a  collation  served  for  the  family,  the  family  chap- 
lain, and  the  priest  from  Yport,  the  mayor  and  the  wit- 
nesses, who  were  some  of  the  large  farmers  of  the  district, 
they  all  walked  in  the  garden.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
chateau  one  could  hear  the  boisterous  mirth  of  the  peas- 
ants, who  were  drinking  cider  beneath  the  apple  trees. 
The  whole  countryside,  dressed  in  their  best,  filled  the 
courtyard. 


36  UNE  VIE   . 

Jeanne  and  Julien  walked  through  the  copse  and  then 
up  the  slope  and,  without  speaking,  gazed  out  at  the  sea. 
The  air  was  cool,  although  it  was  the  middle  of  August; 
the  wind  was  from  the  north,  and  the  sun  blazed  down 
unpityingly  from  the  blue  sky.  The  young  people  sought 
a  more  sheltered  spot,  and  crossing  the  plain,  they  turned 
to  the  right,  toward  the  rolling  and  wooded  valley  that 
leads  to  Yport.  As  soon  as  they  reached  the  trees  the  air 
was  still,  and  they  left  the  road  and  took  a  narrow  path 
beneath  the  trees,  where  they  could  scarcely  walk  abreast. 

Jeanne  felt  an  arm  passed  gently  round  her  waist.  She 
said  nothing,  her  breath  came  quick,  her  heart  beat  fast. 
Some  low  branches  caressed  their  hair,  as  they  bent  to 
pass  under  them.  She  picked  a  leaf;  two  ladybirds  were 
concealed  beneath  it,  like  two  delicate  red  shells. 

"Look,  a  little  family,"  she  said  innocently,  and  feeling 
a  little  more  confidence. 

Julien  placed  his  mouth  to  her  ear,  and  whispered: 
"This  evening  you  will  be  my  wife." 

Although  she  had  learned  many  things  during  her  so- 
journ in  the  country,  she  dreamed  of  nothing  as  yet  but 
the  poetry  of  love,  and  was  surprised.  His  wife?  Was 
she  not  that  already? 

Then  he  began  to  kiss  her  temples  and  neck,  little  light 
kisses.  Startled  each  time  afresh  by  these  masculine  kisses 
to  which  she  was  not  accustomed,  she  instinctively  turned 
away  her  head  to  avoid  them,  though  they  delighted  her. 
But  they  had  com.e  to  the  edge  of  the  wood.  She  stopped, 
embarrassed  at  being  so  far  from  home.  What  would 
they  think? 

"Let  us  go  home,'^  she  said. 

He  withdrew  his  arm  from  her  waist,  and  as  they  turned 
round  they  stood  face  to  face,  so  close  that  they  could 
feel  each  other's  breath  on  their  faces.  They  gazed  deep 
into  one  another's  eyes  with  that  gaze  in  which  two  souls 
seem  to  blend.     They  sought  the  impenetrable  unknown 


UNE  VIE  37 

of  each  other's  being.  They  sought  to  fathom  one  an- 
other, mutely  and  persistently.  What  would  they  be  to 
one  another?  What  would  this  life  be  that  they  were 
about  to  begin  together?  What  joys,  what  happiness,  or 
what  disillusions  were  they  preparing  in  this  long,  indis- 
soluble tete-a-tete  of  marriage?  And  it  seemed  to  them  as 
if  they  had  never  yet  seen  each  other. 

Suddenly,  Julien,  placing  his  two  hands  on  his  wife's 
shoulders,  kissed  her  full  on  the  lips  as  she  had  never  be- 
fore been  kissed.  The  kiss,  penetrating  as  it  did  her  very 
blood  and  marrow,  gave  her  such  a  mysterious  shock  that 
she  pushed  Julien  wildly  away  with  her  two  arms,  almost 
falling  backward  as  she  did  so. 

"Let  us  go  away,  let  us  go  away,"  she  faltered. 

He  did  not  reply,  but  took  both  her  hands  and  held 
them  in  his.  They  walked  home  in  silence,  and  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  seemed  long.  The  dinner  was  simple 
and  did  not  last  long,  contrary  to  the  usual  Norman  cus- 
tom. A  sort  of  embarrassment  seemed  to  paralyze  the 
guests.  The  two  priests,  the  mayor,  and  the  four  farm- 
ers invited,  alone  betrayed  a  little  of  that  broad  mirth 
that  is  supposed  to  accompany  weddings. 

They  had  apparently  forgotten  how  to  laugh,  when  a 
remark  of  the  mayor's  woke  them  up.  It  was  about  nine 
o'clock;  coffee  was  about  to  be  served.  Outside,  under 
the  apple-trees  of  the  first  court,  the  bal  champetre  was 
beginning,  and  through  the  open  window  one  could  see 
all  that  was  going  on.  Lanterns,  hung  from  the  branches, 
gave  the  leaves  a  grayish  green  tint.  Rustics  and  their 
partners  danced  in  a  circle  shouting  a  wild  dance  tune 
to  the  feeble  accompaniment  of  two  violins  and  a  clarinet, 
the  players  seated  on  a  large  table  as  a  platform.  The 
boisterous  singing  of  the  peasants  at  times  completely 
drowTied  the  instruments,  and  the  feeble  strains  torn  to 
tatters  by  the  unrestrained  voices  seemed  to  fall  from 
the  air  in  shreds,  in  little  fragments  of  scattered  notes. 


^S  UNE  VIE 

Two  large  barrels  surrounded  by  flaming  torches  were 
tapped,  and  two  servant  maids  were  kept  busy  rinsing 
glasses  and  bowls  in  order  to  refill  them  at  the  tap  whence 
flowed  the  red  wine,  or  at  the  tap  of  the  cider  barrel.  On 
the  table  were  bread,  sausages  and  cheese.  Every  one 
swallowed  a  mouthful  from  time  to  time,  and  beneath  the 
roof  of  illuminated  foliage  this  wholesome  and  boisterous 
fete  made  the  melancholy  watchers  in  the  dining-room  long 
to  dance  also,  and  to  drink  from  one  of  those  large  bar- 
rels, while  they  munched  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter  and 
a  raw  onion. 

The  mayor,  who  was  beating  time  with  his  knife,  cried: 
"By  Jove,  that  is  all  right;  it  is  like  the  wedding  of  Gana- 
che." 

A  suppressed  giggle  was  heard,  but  Abbe  Picot,  the 
natural  enemy  of  civil  authority,  cried:  "You  mean  of 
Cana."  The,  other  did  not  accept  the  correction.  "No, 
monsieur  le  cure,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about;  when 
I  say  Ganache,  I  mean  Ganache." 

They  rose  from  table  and  went  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  then  outside  to  mix  with  the  merrymakers.  The 
guests  soon  left. 

The  baron  and  the  baroness  were  disputing  in  a  low 
voice.  Madame  Adelaide,  more  out  of  breath  than  ever, 
seemed  to  be  refusing  to  do  something;  at  last  she  said  in 
a  louder  tone:  "No,  mon  "ami,  I  cannot  do  it,  I  should 
not  know  how  to  begin." 

The  baron  then,  leaving  her  abruptly,  approached 
Jeanne. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  daughter?"  he  said. 

"If  you  wish,  papa,"  she  answered  tenderly,  and  they 
walked  out.  A  little  cold,  dry  wind  was  blowing  up  from 
the  sea,  one  of  those  cool  summer  winds  that  have  a  breath 
of  autumn.  Clouds  were  scudding  across  the  sky,  hiding 
the  stars  at  intervals. 

The  baron  held  Jeanne's  arm  close  to  his  side,  while  he 


UNE  VIE  39 

pressed  her  hand  tenderly.  They  had  walked  a  few  min- 
utes. He  seemed  unc^ecided,  embarrassed.  At  length  he 
said: 

"Darling,  I  am  going  to  undertake  a  difficult  task  that 
should  fall  to  your  mother,  but  as  she  objects  to  it,  I  must 
take  her  place.  I  do  not  know  how  much  you  know  of 
the  things  of  real  Hfe.  There  are  mysteries  that  are  care- 
fully hidden  from  children,  young  girls  especially,  young 
girls  who  should  remain  pure  in  mind,  irreproachably  pure 
imtil  the  moment  we  give  them  over  into  the  arms  of  the 
man  who  is  to  take  charge  of  their  future  happiness.  It 
will  be  his  place  to  lift  the  veil  that  conceals  the  sweet 
secret  of  life.  But  unless  some  suspicion  has  entered  their 
minds  they  are  disgusted  at  the  somewhat  brutal  reality 
hidden  beneath  their  dreams.  Wounded  in  their  sensibili- 
ties, they  refuse  to  their  husbands  what  the  law,  human 
as  v/ell  as  natural,  accords  him  as  an  absolute  right.  I 
cannot  tell  you  any  more,  dearie;  but  do  not  forget  this, 
only  this,  that  you  belong  entirely  to  your  husband." 

What  did  she  know?  What  did  she  guess?  She  began 
to  tremble,  oppressed  by  an  overwhelming  and  painful 
melancholy,  like  a  presentiment. 

They  went  into  the  house.  They  were  surprised  to  see 
Madame  Adelaide  sobbing  on  Julien's  shoulder.  Her 
tears,  noisy  tears,  as  if  blown  out  by  a  pair  of  bellows, 
seemed  to  come  from  her  nose,  her  mouth  and  her  eyes 
at  the  same  time;  and  the  young  man,  dumfounded,  awk- 
ward, was  supporting  the  heavy  woman  who  had  sunk 
into  his  arms  to  commend  to  his  care  her  darling,  her 
little  one,  her  adored  daughter. 

The  baron  rushed  toward  them,  saying:  "Oh,  no  scenes, 
no  tears,  I  beg  of  you,"  and,  taking  his  wife  to  a  chair, 
he  made  her  sit  down,  while  she  wiped  away  her  tears. 
Then,  turning  to  Jeanne:  "Come,  little  one,  kiss  your 
mother  and  go  to  bed." 

What  happened  then?    She  could  hardly  have  told,  for 


40  UNE  VIE 

she  seemed  to  have  lost  her  head,  but  she  felt  a  shower  of 
little  grateful  kisses  on  her  lips. 

Day  davmed.  Julien  awoke,  yawned,  stretched,  looked 
at  his  wife,  smiled  and  asked:  "Did  you  sleep  well,  darl- 
ing?" 

She  noticed  that  he  now  said  "thou,"  and  she  replied, 
bewildered,  "Why,  yes.  And  you?"  "Oh,  very  well,"  he 
answered.  And  turning  toward  her,  he  kissed  her  and  then 
began  to  chat  quietly.  He  set  before  her  plans  of  living, 
with  the  idea  of  economy,  and  this  word  occurring  several 
times,  astonished  Jeanne.  She  listened  without  grasping 
the  meaning  of  his  words,  looked  at  him,  but  was  think- 
ing of  a  thousand  things  that  passed  rapidly  through  her 
mind  hardly  leaving  a  trace. 

The  clock  struck  eight.  "Come,  we  must  get  up,"  he 
said.  "It  would  look  ridiculous  for  us  to  be  late."  When 
he  was  dressed  he  assisted  his  wife  with  all  the  little  de- 
tails of  her  toilet,  not  allowing  her  to  call  Rosalie.  As 
they  left  the  room  he  stopped.  "You  know,  when  we  are 
alone,  we  can  now  use  'thou,'  but  before  your  parents  it  is 
better  to  wait  a  while.  It  will  be  quite  natural  when  we 
come  back  from  our  wedding  journey." 

She  did  not  go  down  till  luncheon  was  ready.  The  day 
passed  like  any  ordinary  day,  as  if  nothing  new  had  oc- 
curred. There  was  one  man  more  in  the  house,  that  was 
all. 


CHAPTER  V 

CORSICA   AND   A   NEW   LIFE 

Four  days  later  the  travelling  carriage  arrived  that  was 
to  take  them  to  Marseilles. 

After  the  first  night  Jeanne  had  become  accustomed  to 
Julien's  kisses  and  caresses,  although  her  repugnance  to 
a  closer  intimacy  had  not  diminished.  She  thought  him 
handsome,  she  loved  him.  She  again  felt  happy  and 
cheerful. 

The  farewells  were  short  and  without  sadness.  The 
baroness  alone  seemed  tearful.  As  the  carriage  was  just 
starting  she  placed  a  purse,  heavy  as  lead,  in  her  daugh- 
ter's hand,  saying,  "That  is  for  your  little  expenses  as  a 
bride." 

Jeanne  thrust  the  purse  in  her  pocket  and  the  carriage 
started. 

Toward  evening  Julien  said:  "How  much  money  did 
your  mother  give  you  in  that  purse?" 

She  had  not  given  it  a  thought,  and  she  poured  out  the 
contents  on  her  knees.  A  golden  shower  filled  her  lap: 
two  thousand  francs.  She  clapped  her  hands.  'T  shall 
commit  all  kinds  of  extravagance,"  she  said  as  she  replaced 
it  in  the  purse. 

After  travelling  eight  days  in  terribly  hot  weather  they 
reached  Marseilles.  The  following  day  the  Roi-Louis,  a 
little  mail  steamer  which  went  to  Naples  by  way  of  Ajac- 
cio,  took  them  to  Corsica. 

41 


42  UNE  VIE 

Corsica!  Its  "maquis,"  its  bandits,  its  mountains!  The 
birthplace  of  Napoleon!  It  seemed  to  Jeanne  that  she 
was  leaving  real  life  to  enter  into  a  dream,  although  wide 
awake.  Standing  side  by  side  on  the  bridge  of  the 
steamer,  they  looked  at  the  cliffs  of  Provence  as  they 
passed  swiftly  by  them.  The  calm  sea  of  deep  blue  seemed 
petrified  beneath  the  ardent  rays  of  the  sun. 

"Do  you  remember  our  excursion  in  Pere  Lastique's 
boat?"  said  Jeanne. 

Instead  of  replying,  he  gave  her  a  hasty  kiss  on  the 
ear. 

The  paddle-wheels  struck  the  water,  disturbing  its  tor- 
por, and  a  long  track  of  foam  like  the  froth  of  champagne 
remained  in  the  wake  of  the  boat,  reaching  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see.  Jeanne  drank  in  with  delight  the  odor 
of  the  salt  mist  that  seemed  to  go  to  the  very  tips  of  her 
fingers.  Everywhere  the  sea.  But  ahead  of  them  there 
was  something  gray,  not  clearly  defined  in  the  early  dawn ; 
a  sort  of  massing  of  strange-looking  clouds,  pointed, 
jagged,  seemed  to  rest  on  the  waters. 

Presently  it  became  clearer,  its  outline  more  distinct 
on  the  brightening  sky;  a  large  chain  of  mountains,  peaked 
and  weird,  appeared.  It  was  Corsica,  covered  with  a  light 
veil  of  mist.  The  sun  rose  behind  it,  outlining  the  jagged 
crests  like  black  shadows.  Then  all  the  summits  were 
bathed  in  lis^ht,  while  the  rest  of  the  island  remained  cov- 
ered with  mist. 

The  captain,  a  little  sun-browned  '  man,  dried  up, 
stunted,  toughened  and  shrivelled  by  the  harsh  salt  winds, 
appeared  on  the  bridge  and  in  a  voice  hoarse  after  twenty 
years  of  command  and  worn  from  shouting  amid  the 
storms,  said  to  Jeanne: 

"Do  you  perceive  it,  that  odor?" 

She  certainly  noticed  a  strong  and  peculiar  odor  of 
plants,  a  wild,  aromatic  odor. 

"That    is    Corsica    that    sends    out    that    fragrance, 


UNE  VIE  43 

madame,"  said  the  captain.  "It  is  her  peculiar  odor  of 
a  pretty  woman.  After  being  away  for  twenty  years,  I 
should  recognize  it  five  miles  out  at  sea.  I  belong  to  it. 
He,  down  there,  at  Saint  Helena,  he  speaks  of  it  always, 
it  seems,  of  the  odor  of  his  native  country.  He  belongs 
to  my  family." 

And  the  captain,  taking  off  his  hat,  saluted  Corsica, 
saluted  down  yonder,  across  the  ocean,  the  great  captive 
emperor  who  belonged  to  his  family. 

Jeanne  was  so  affected  that  she  almost  cried. 

Then,  pointing  toward  the  horizon,  the  captain  said: 
"Les  Sanguinaires." 

Julien  was  standing  beside  his  wife,  with  his  arm  round 
her  waist,  and  they  both  looked  out  into  the  distance  to 
see  what  he  was  alluding  to.  They  at  length  perceived 
some  pyramidal  rocks  which  the  vessel  rounded  presently 
to  enter  an  immense  peaceful  gulf  surrounded  by  lofty 
summits,  the  base  of  which  was  covered  with  what  looked 
like  moss. 

Pointing  to  this  verdant  growth,  the  captain  saiil:  "Le« 
maquis." 

As  they  proceeded  on  their  course  the  circle  of  moun- 
tains appeared  to  close  in  behind  the  steamer,  which 
moved  along  slowly  in  such  a  lake  of  transparent  azure 
that  one  could  sometimes  see  to  the  bottom. 

The  town  suddenly  appeared  perfectly  white  at  the 
end  of  the  gulf,  on  the  edge  of  the  water,  at  the  base  of 
the  mountains.  Some  little  Italian  boats  were  anchored  in 
the  dock.  Four  or  five  rowboats  came  up  beside  the 
Roi-Louis  to  get  passengers. 

Julien,  who  was  collecting  the  baggage,  asked  his  wife 
in  a  low  tone:  "Twenty  sous  is  enough,  is  it  not,  to  give 
to  the  porter?"  For  a  week  he  had  constantly  asked  the 
same  question,  which  annoyed  her  each  time.  She  replied 
somewhat  impatiently:  "When  one  is  not  sure  of  giving 
enough,  one  gives  too  much." 


44  UNE  VIE 

He  was  always  disputing  with  the  hotel  proprietors, 
with  the  servants,  the  drivers,  the'  vendors  of  all  kinds, 
and  when,  by  dint  of  bargaining,  he  had  obtained  a  reduc- 
tion in  price,  he  would  say  to  Jeanne  as  he  rubbed  his 
hands:  "I  do  not  like  to  be  cheated." 

She  trembled  whenever  a  bill  came  in,  certain  before- 
hand of  the  remarks  that  he  would  make  about  each  item, 
humiliated  at  this  bargaining,  blushing  up  to  the  roots  of 
her  hair  beneath  the  contemptuous  glances  of  the  servants 
as  they  looked  after  her  husband,  while  they  held  in  their 
hand  the  meagre  tip. 

He  had  a  dispute  with  the  boatmen  who  landed  him. 

The  first  tree  Jeanne  saw  was  a  palm.  They  went  to 
a  great,  empty  hotel  at  the  corner  of  an  immense  square 
and  ordered  breakfast. 

After  an  hour's  rest  they  arranged  an  itinerary  for  their 
trip,  and  at  the  end  of  three  days  spent  in  this  little  town, 
hidden  at  the  end  of  the  blue  gulf,  and  hot  as  a  furnace 
enclosed  in  its  curtain  of  mountains,  which  keep  every 
breath  of  air  from  it,  they  decided  to  hire  some  saddle 
horses,  so  as  to  be  able  to  cross  any  difficult  pass,  and  se- 
lected two  little  Corsican  stallions  with  fiery  eyes,  thin  and 
unwearying,  and  set  out  one  morning  at  daybreak.  A 
guide,  mounted  on  a  mule,  accompanied  them  and 
carried  the  provisions,  for Jnns  are  unknown  in  this  wild 
country. 

The  road  ran  along  the  gulf  and  soon  turned  into  a  kind 
of  valley,  and  on  toward  the  high  mountains.  They  fre- 
quently crossed  the  dry  beds  of  torrents  with  only  a  tiny 
stream  of  water  trickling  underthe  stones,  gurgling  faintly 
like  a  wild  animal  in  hiding.  /^^''  '^ 

The  uncultivated  country  seemed  perfectly  barren.  The 
sides  of  the  hills  were  covered  with  tall  weeds,  yellow  from 
the  blazing  sun.  Sometimes  they  met  a  mountaineer, 
either  on  foot  or  mounted  on  a  little  horse,  or  astride  a 
donkey  about  as  big  as  a  dog.    They  all  carried  a  loaded 


UNE  VIE  45 

rifle  slung  across  their  backs,  old  rusty  weapons,  but  re- 
doubtable in  their  hands. 

The  pungent  odor  of  the  aromatic  herbs  with  which  the 
island  is  overgrowTi  seemed  to  make  the  air  heavy.  The 
road  ascended  gradually  amid  the  long  curves  of  the 
mountains.  The  red  or  blue  granite  peaks  gave  an  ap- 
pearance of  fairyland  to  the  wild  landscape,  a|id  on  the 
foothills  immense  forests  of  chestnut  trees  looked  like 
green  brush,  compared  with  the  elevations  above  them. 

Sometimes  the  guide,  reaching  out  his  hand  toward 
some  of  these  heights,  would  repeat  a  name.  Jeanne  and 
Julien  would  look  where  he  pointed,  but  see  nothing,  until 
at  last  they  discovered  something  gray,  like  a  mass  of 
stones  fallen  from  the  summit.  It  was  a  little  village,  a 
hamlet  of  granite  hanging  there,  fastened  on  like  a  veri- 
table bird's  nest  and  almost  invisible  on  the  huge  moun- 
tain. 

Walking  their  horses  like  this  made  Jeanne  nervous. 
"Let  us  go  faster,"  she  said.  And  she  whipped  up  her 
horse.  Then,-  as  she  did  not  hear  her  husband  following 
her,  she  turned  round  and  laughed  heartily  as  she  saw 
him  coming  along,  pale,  and  holding  on  to  his  horse's  mane 
as  it  bounced  him  up  and  down.  His  very  appearance  of 
a  ''beau  cavalier"  made  his  awkwardness  and  timidity  all 
the  more  comical. 

They  trotted  along  quietly.  The  road  now  ran  between 
two  interminable  forests  of  brush,  which  covered  the  whole 
side  of  the  mountain  like  a  garment.  This  was  the  "Ma- 
quis," composed  of  scrub  oak,  juniper,  arbutus,  mastic, 
privet,  gorse,  laurel,  myrtle  and  boxwood,  intertwined  with 
clematis,  huge  ferns,  honeysuckle,  cytisus,  rosemary,  lav- 
ender and  brambles,  which  covered  the  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain with  an  impenetrable  fleece. 

They  were  hungry.  The  guide  rejoined  them  and  led 
them  to  one  of  those  charming  springs  so  frequent  in 
rocky  countries,  a  tiny  thread  of  iced  water  issuing  from 


46  UNE  VIE 

a  little  hole  in  the  rock  and  flowing  into  a  chestnut  leaf 
that  some  passerby  had  placed  there  to  guide  the  water 
into  one's  mouth. 

Jeanne  felt  so  happy  that  she  could  hardly  restrain 
herself  from  screaming  for  joy. 

They  continued  their  journey  and  began  to  descend  the 
slope  winding  round  the  Bay  of  Sagone.  Toward  evening 
they  passed  through  Cargese,  the  Greek  village  founded 
by  a  colony  of  refugees  who  were  driven  from  their  coun- 
try. Tall,  beautiful  girls,  with  rounded  hips,  long  hands 
and  slender  waists,  and  singularly  graceful,  were  grouped 
beside  a  fountain.  Julien  called  out,  "Good  evening,"  and 
they  replied  in  musical  tones  in  the  harmonious  language 
of  their  own  land. 

When  they  reached  Plana  they  had  to  beg  for  hospi- 
tality, as  in  ancient  times  and  in  desert  lands.  Jeanne 
trembled  with  joy  as  they  waited  for  the  door  to  be  opened 
after  Julien  knocked.  Oh,  this  was  a  journey  worth  while, 
with  all  the  unexpected  of  unexplored  paths. 

It  happened  to  be  the  home  of  a  young  couple.  They 
received  the  travellers  as  the  patriarchs  must  have  re- 
ceived the  guest  sent  by  God.  They  had  to  sleep  on  a 
corn  husk  mattress  in  an  old  moldy  house.  The  wood- 
work, all  eaten  by  worms,  overrun  with  long  boring-worms, 
seemed  to  emit  sounds,  to  be  alive  and  to  sigh. 

They  set  off  again  at  daybreak,  and  presently  stopped 
before  a  forest,  a  veritable  forest  of  purple  granite.  There 
were  peaks,  pillars,  bell-towers,  wondrous  forms  molded 
by  age,  the  ravaging  wind  and  the  sea  mist.  As  much  as 
three  hundred  metres  in  height,  slender,  round,  twisted, 
hooked,  deformed,  unexpected  and  fantastic,  these  amaz- 
ing rocks  looked  like  trees,  plants,  animals,  monuments, 
men,  monks  in  their  garb,  horned  devils,  gigantic  birds, 
a  whole  population  of  monsters,  a  menagerie  of  nightmares 
petrified  by  the  will  of  some  eccentric  divinity. 

Jeanne  had  ceased  talking,  her  heart  was  full.    She  took 


UNE  VIE  47 

Julien's  hand  and  squeezed  it,  overcome  with  a  longing  for 
love  in  presence  of  the  beauty  of  nature. 

Suddenly,  as  they  emerged  from  this  chaos,  they  saw 
before  them  another  gulf,  encircled  by  a  wall  of  blood-red 
granite.  And  these  red  rocks  were  reflected  in  the  blue 
waters. 

"Oh,  Julien!"  faltered  Jeanne,  unable  to  speak  for 
wonder  and  choking  with  her  emotion.  Two  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  Julien  gazed  at  her  in  astonishment  and 
said: 

''What  is  the  matter,  my  pet?" 

She  wiped  away  her  tears,  smiled  and  replied  in  a  rather 
shaky  voice: 

"Nothing — I  am  nervous — I  do  not  know — it  just  came 
over  me.     I  am  so  happy  that  the  least  thing  affects 


me." 


He  could  not  understand  these  feminine  attacks  of 
"nerves,"  the  shocks  of  these  vibrant  beings,  excited  at 
nothing,  whom  enthusiasm  stirs  as  might  a  catastrophe, 
whom  an  imperceptible  sensation  completely  upsets,  driv- 
ing them  wild  with  joy  or  despair. 

These  tears  seemed  absurd  to  him,  and  thinking  only 
of  the  bad  road,  he  said: 

"You  would  do  better  to  watch  your  horse." 

They  descended  an  almost  impassable  path  to  the  shore 
of  the  gulf,  then  turned  to  the  right  to  ascend  the  gloomy 
Val  d'Ota. 

But  the  road  was  so  bad  that  Julien  proposed  that  they 
should  go  on  foot.  Jeanne  w^as  delighted.  She  was  en- 
chanted at  the  idea  of  walking,  of  being  alone  with  him 
after  her  late  emotion. 

The  guide  went  ahead  with  the  mule  and  the  horses 
and  they  walked  slowly. 

The  mountain,  cleft  from  top  to  bottom,  spreads  apart. 
The  path  lies  in  this  breach,  between  two  gigantic  walls. 
A  roaring  torrent  flows  through  the  gorge.    The  air  is  icy, 


48  UNE  VIE 

the  granite  looks  black,  and  high  above  one  the  glimpse 
of  blue  sky  astonishes  and  bewilders  one. 

A  sudden  noise  made  Jeanne  start.  She  raised  her 
eyes.  An  immense  bird  flew  away  from  a  hollow;  it  was 
an  eagle.  His  spread  wings  seemed  to  brush  the  two  walls 
of  the  gorge  and  he  soared  into  the  blue  and  dis- 
appeared. '"'^^^ 

Farther  on  there  was  a  double  gorge  and  the  path  lay 
between  the  two  in  abrupt  zigzags.  Jeanne,  careless  and 
happy,  took  the  lead,  the  pebbles  rolling  away  beneath  her 
feet,  fearlessly  leaning  over  the  abysses.  Julien  followed 
her,  somewhat  out  of  breath,  his  e3^es  on  the  ground  for 
fear  of  becoming  dizzy. 

All  at  once  the  sun  shone  down  on  them,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  they  were  leaving  the  infernal  regions.  They  were 
thirsty,  and  following  a  track  of  moisture,  they  crossed  a 
wilderness  of  stones  and  found  a  little  spring  conducted 
into  a  channel  made  of  a  piece  of  hollowed-out  wood  for 
the  benefit  of  the  goatherds.  A  carpet  of  moss  covered  the 
ground  all  round  it,  and  Jeanne  and  Julien  knelt  down  to 
drink. 

As  they  were  enjoying  the  fresh,  cold  water,  Julien  tried 
to  draw  Jeanne  away  to  tease  her.  She  resisted  and  their 
lips  met  and  parted,  and  the  stream  of  cold  v/ater  splashed 
their  faces,  their  necks,  th^ir  clothes  and  their  hands,  and 
their  kisses  mingled  in  the  stream. 

They  Vv^ere  a  long  t'me  reaching  the  summit  of  the  de- 
clivity, as  the  road  v/as  so  winding  and  uneven,  and  they 
did  not  reach  Evisa  until  evening  and  the  house  of  Paoli 
Palabretti,  a  relative  of  their  guide. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  somewhat  bent,  with  the  mournful 
air  of  a  consumptive.  He  took  them  to  their  room,  a 
cheerless  room  of  bare  stone,  but  handsome  for  this  coun- 
try, v/here  all  elegance  is  ignored.  He  expressed  in  his 
language — the  Corsican  patois,  a  jumble  of  French  and 
Italian — his  pleasure  at  welcoming  them,  when  a  shrill 


UNE  VIE  49 

voice  interrupted  him.  A  little  swarthy  woman,  with  large 
black  eyes,  a  skin  warmed  by  the  sun,  a  slender  waist, 
teeth  alw^ays  showing  in  a  perpetual  smile,  darted  for- 
ward, kissed  Jeanne,  shook  Julien's  hand  and  said:  "Good- 
day,  madame;  good-day,  monsieur;  I  hope  you  are  well." 

She  took  their  hats,  shawls,  carrying  all  on  one  arm, 
for  the  other  was  in  a  sling,  and  then  she  made  them  all 
go  outside,  saying  to  her  husband:  "Go  and  take  them  for 
a  walk  until  dinner  time." 

M.  Palabretti  obeyed  at  once  and  walked  between  the 
two  young  people  as  he  showed  them  the  village.  He 
dragged  his  feet  and  his  words,  coughing  frequently,  and 
repeating  at  each  attack  of  coughing: 

"It  is  the  air  of  the  Val,  which  is  cool,  and  has  struck 
my  chest." 

He  led  them  on  a  by-path  beneath  enormous  chestnut 
trees.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  said  in  his  monotonous 
voice:  "It  is  here  that  my  cousin,  Jean  Rinaldi,  w^as  killed 
by  Mathieu  Lori.  Sec,  I  was  there,  close  to  Jean,  when. 
Mathieu  appeared  at  ten  paces  from  us.  'Jean,'  he  cried, 
'do  not  go  to  Albertacce;  do  not  go,  Jean,  or  I  will  kill 
you.     I  warn  you!' 

"I  took  Jean's  arm:  'Do  not  go  there,  Jean;  he  will 
do  it.' 

"It  was  about  a  girl  whom  they  were  both  after,  Paulina 
Sinacoupi. 

"But  Jean  cried  out:  'I  am  going,  Mathieu;  you  will 
not  be  the  one  to  prevent  me.' 

"Then  Mathieu  unslung  his  gun,  and  before  I  could 
adjust  mine,  he  fired. 

"Jean  leaped  tw^o  feet  in  the  air,  like  a  child  skipping, 
yes,  monsieur,  and  he  fell  back  full  on  me,  so  that  my 
gun  went  off  and  rolled  as  far  as  the  big  chestnut  tree 
over  yonder. 

"Jean's  mouth  was  wide  open,  but  he  did  not  utter  a 
word;  he  was  dead." 


50  UNE  VIE 

The  young  people  gazed  in  amazement  at  the  cahn 
witness  of  this  crime.     Jeanne  asked: 

''And  what  became  of  the  assassin?" 

Paoli  Palabretti  had  a  long  fit  of  coughing  and  then 
said: 

"He  escaped  to  the  mountain.  It  was  my  brother  who 
killed  him  the  following  year.  You  know,  my  brother, 
Philippi  Palabretti,  the  bandit." 

Jeanne  shuddered. 

"Your  brother  a  bandit?" 

With  a  gleam  of  pride  in  his  eye,  the  calm  Corsican  re- 
plied : 

"Yes,  madame.  He  was  celebrated,  that  one.  He  laid 
low  six  gendarmes.  He  died  at  the  same  time  as  Nicolas 
Morali,  when  they  were  trapped  in  the  Niolo,  after  six 
days  of  fighting,  and  were  about  to  die  of  hunger. 

"The  country  is  worth  it,"  he  added  with  a  resigned 
air  in  the  same  tone  in  which  he  said:  "It  is  the  air  of  the 
Val,  which  is  cool." 

Then  they  went  home  to  dinner,  and  the  little  Corsican 
woman  behaved  as  if  she  had  known  them  for  twenty 
years. 

But  Jeanne  was  worried.  When  Julien  again  held  her 
in  his  arms,  would  she  experience  the  same  strange  and 
intense  sensation  that  she  had  felt  on  the  moss  beside  the 
spring?  And  when  they  were  alone  together  that  evening 
she  trembled  lest  she  should  still  be  insensible  to  his  kisses. 
But  she  was  reassured,  and  this  was  her  first  night  of 
love. 

The  next  day,  as  they  were  about  to  set  out,  she  de- 
cided that  she  would  not  leave  this  humble  cottage,  where 
it  seemed  as  though  a  fresh  happiness  had  begun  for  her. 

She  called  her  host's  little  wife  into  her  room  and.  while 
making  clear  that  she  did  not  mean  it  as  a  present,  she 
insisted,  even  with  some  annoyance,  on  sending  her  from 
Paris,  as  soon  as  she  arrived,  a  remembrance,  a  remem- 


UNE  VIE  SI 

brance  to  which  she  attached  an  almost  superstitious  sig- 
nificance. 

The  Httle  Corsican  refused  for  some  time,  not  wishing 
to  accept  it.    But  at  last  she  consented,  saying: 

"Well,  then,  send  me  a  little  pistol,  a  very  small  one." 

Jeanne  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment.  The  other 
added  in  her  ear,  as  one  confides  a  sweet  and  intimate 
secret:  "It  is  to  kill  my  brother-in-law."  And  smiling, 
she  hastily  unwound  the  bandages  around  the  helpless 
arm,  and  showing  her  firm,  white  skin  with  the  scratch 
of  a  stiletto  across  it,  now  almost  healed,  she  said:  "If  I 
had  not  been  almost  as  strong  as  he  is,  he  would  have 
killed  me.  My  husband  is  not  jealous,  he  knows  me ;  and, 
besides,  he  is  ill,  you  know,  and  that  quiets  your  blood. 
And,  besides,  madame,  I  am  an  honest  woman;  but  my 
brother-in-law  believes  all  that  he  hears.  He  is  jealous 
for  my  husband  and  he  will  surely  try  it  again.  Then  I 
shall  have  my  little  pistol;  I  shall  be  easy,  and  sure  of 
my  revenge." 

Jeanne  promised  to  send  the  weapon,  kissed  her  new 
friend  tenderly  and  they  set  out  on  their  journey. 

The  rest  of  the  trip  was  nothing  but  a  dream,  a  contin- 
ual series  of  embraces,  an  intoxication  of  caresses.  She 
saw  nothing,  neither  the  landscape,  nor  the  people,  nor 
the  places  where  they  stopped.  She  saw  nothing  but 
Julien. 

On  arriving  at  Bastia,  they  had  to  pay  the  guide.  Julien 
fumbled  in  his  pockets.  Not  finding  what  he  wanted,  he 
said  to  Jeanne:  "As  you  are  not  using  your  mother's  two 
thousand  francs,  give  them  to  me  to  carry.  They  will  be 
safer  in  my  belt,  and  it  will  avoid  my  having  to  make 
change." 

She  handed  him  her  purse. 

They  went  to  Leghorn,  visited  Florence,  Genoa  and 
all  the  Comici.  They  reached  Marseilles  on  a  morning 
when  the  north  wind  was  blowing.     Two  months  had 


52  UNE  VIE 

elapsed  since  they  left  the  "Poplars."  It  was  novv  the 
15  th  of  October. 

Jeanne,  affected  by  the  cold  wind  that  seemed  to  come 
from  yonder,  from  far-off  Normandy,  felt  sad.  Julien 
had,  for  some  time,  appeared  changed,  tired,  indifferent, 
and  she  feared  she  knew  not  what. 

They  delayed  their  return  home  four  days  longer,  not 
being  able  to  make  up  their  minds  to  leave  this  pleasant 
land  of  the  sun.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  come  to 
an  end  of  her  happiness. 

At  length  they  left.  They  were  to  make  all  their  pur- 
chases in  Paris,  prior  to  settling  down  for  good  at  the 
"Poplars,"  and  Jeanne  looked  forward  to  bringing  back 
some  treasures,  thanks  to  her  mother's  present.  But  the 
first  thing  she  thought  of  was  the  pistol  promised  to  the 
little  Corsican  woman  of  Evisa. 

The  day  after  they  arrived  she  said  to  Julien:  "Dear, 
will  you  give  me  that  money  of  mamma's?  I  want  to 
make  my  purchases." 

He  turned  toward  her  with  a  look  of  annoyance. 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"Why — whatever  you  please." 

"I  will  give  you  a  hundred  francs,"  he  replied,  "but  do 
not  squander  it." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say,  amazed  and  confused. 
At  length  she  faltered:  "But — I — handed  you  the  money 
to- " 

He  did  not  give  her  time  to  finish. 

"Yes,  of  course.  Whether  it  is  in  my  pocket  or  j^ours 
makes  no  difference  from  the  moment  that  we  have  the 
same  purse.  I  do  not  refuse  you,  do  I,  since  I  am  giving 
you  a  hundred  francs?" 

She  took  the  five  gold  pieces  without  saying  a  word, 
but  she  did  not  venture  to  ask  for  any  more,  and  she 
bought  nothing  but  the  pistol. 

Eight  days  later  they  set  out  for  the  "Poplars." 


CHAPTER  VI 

DISENCHANTMENT 

The  family  and  servants  were  awaiting  them  outside 
the  white  gate  with  brick  supports.  The  postchaise  drew 
up  and  there  were  long  and  affectionate  greetings.  Little 
mother  wept;  Jeanne,  affected,  wiped  away  some  tears; 
father  nervously  walked  up  and  down. 

Then,  as  the  baggage  vras  being  unloaded,  they  told  of 
their  travels  beside  the  parlor  fire.  Jeanne's  words  flowed 
freely,  and  everything  was  told,  everything,  in  a  half  hour, 
except,  perhaps,  a  few  little  details  forgotten  in  this  rapid 
account. 

The  young  wife  then  went  to  undo  her  parcels.  Rosalie, 
also  greatly  affected,  assisted  her.  When  this  was  fin- 
ished and  everything  had  been  put  away,  the  little  maid 
left  her  mistress,  and  Jeanne,  somewhat  fatigued,  sat 
down. 

She  asked  herself  what  she  was  now  going  to  do,  seeking 
some  occupation  for  her  mind,  some  work  for  her  hands. 
She  did  not  care  to  go  down  again  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  her  mother  was  asleep,  and  she  thought  she  would 
take  a  walk.  But  the  country  seemed  so  sad  that  she  felt 
a  weight  at  her  heart  on  only  looking  out  of  the  window. 

Then  it  came  to  her  that  she  had  no  longer  anything 
to  do,  never  again  anything  to  do.  All  her  young  life 
at  the  convent  had  been  preoccupied  with  the  future, 
busied  with  dreams.     The  constant  excitement  of  hope 

S3 


54  UNE  VIE 

filled  her  hours  at.  that  time,  so  that  she  was  not  aware 
of  their  flight.  Then  hardly  had  she  left  those  austere 
walls,  where  her  illusions  had  unfolded,  than  her  expec- 
tations of  love  were  at  once  realized.  The  longed-for  lover, 
met,  loved  and  married  within  a  few  weeks,  as  one  marries 
on  these  sudden  resolves,  had  carried  her  off  in  his  arms, 
without  giving  her  time  for  reflection. 

But  now  the  sweet  reality  of  the  first  days  was  to  be- 
come the  everyday  reality,  which  closed  the  door  on  vague 
hopes,  on  the  enchanting  worries  of  the  unknown.  Yes, 
there  was  nothing  more  to  look  forward  to.  And  there 
was  nothing  more  to  do,  to-day,  to-morrow,  never.  She 
felt  all  thiis  vaguely  as  a  certain  disillusion,  a  certain 
crumbling  of  her  dreams. 

She  rose  and  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cold  win- 
dow panes. 

Then,  after  gazing  for  some  time  at  the  sky  across  which 
dark  clouds  were  passing,  she  decided  to  go  out. 

Was  this  the  same  country,  the  same  grass,  the  same 
trees  as  in  May?  What  had  become  of  the  sunlit  cheer- 
fulness of  the  leaves  and  the  poetry  of  the  green  grass, 
where  dandelions,  poppies  and  moon  daisies  bloomed  and 
where  yellow  butterflies  fluttered  as  though  held  by  in- 
visible wires?  An^  this  intoxication  of  the  air  teeming 
with  life,  with  fragrance,  with  fertilizing  pollen,  existed 
no  longer! 

The  avenues,  soaked  by  the  constant  autumnal  down- 
pours, were  covered  with  a  thick  carpet  of  fallen  leaves 
which  extended  beneath  the  shivering  bareness  of  the  al- 
most leafless  poplars.  She  went  as  far  as  the  shrubbery. 
It  was  as  sad  as  the  chamber  of  a  dying  person.  A  green 
hedge  which  separated  the  little  winding  walks  was  bare 
of  leaves.  Little  birds  flew  from  place  to  place  with  a 
little  chilly  cry,  seeking  a  shelter. 

The  thick  curtain  of  elm  trees  that  formed  a  protection 
against  the  sea  wind,  the  lime  tree  and  the  plane  tree  with 


UNE  VIE  55 

their  crimson  and  yellow  tints  seemed  clothed,  the  one 
in  red  velvet  and  the  other  in  yellow  silk. 

Jeanne  walked  slowly  up  and  down  petite  mere's  avenue, 
alongside  the  Couillards'  farm.  Something  weighed  on 
her  spirit  like  a  presentiment  of  the  long  boredom  of  the 
monotonous  life  about  to  begin. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  bank  where  Julien  had  first 
told  her  of  his  love  and  remained  there,  dreaming,  scarcely 
thinking,  depressed  to  the  very  soul,  longing  to  lie  dowrl^ 
to  sleep,  in  order  to  escape  the  dreariness  of  the  day. 

All  at  once  she  perceived  a  gull  crossing  the  sky,  carried 
away  in  a  gust  of  wind,  and  she  recalled  the  eagle  she  had 
seen  down  there  in  Corsica,  in  the  gloomy  vale  of  Ota. 
She  felt  a  spasm  at  her  heart  as  at  the  remembrance  of 
something  pleasant  that  is  gone  by,  and  she  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  beautiful  island  with  its  wild  perfume,  its 
sun  that  ripens  oranges  and  lemons,  its  mountains  with 
their  rosy  summits,  its  azure  gulfs  and  its  ravines  through 
which  the  torrents  flowed. 

And  the  moist,  severe  landscape  that  surrounded  her, 
with  the  falling  leaves  and  the  gray  clouds  blown  along 
by  the  wind,  enfolded  her  in  such  a  heavy  mantle  of  misery 
that  she  went  back  to  the  house  to  keep  from  sobbing. 

Her  mother  was  dozing  in  a  torpid  condition  in  front 
of  the  fire,  accustomed  to  the  melancholy  of  the  long 
daysy  and  not  noticing  it  any  longer.  Her  father  and 
Julien  had  gone  for  a  walk  to  talk  about  business  matters. 
Night  was  coming  on,  filling  the  large  drawing-room  with 
gloom  lighted  by  reflections  of  light  from  the  fire. 

The  baron  presently  appeared,  followed  by  Julien.  As 
soon  as  the  vicomte  entered  the  room  he  rang  the  bell, 
saying:  "Quick,  quick,  let  us  have  some  light!  It  is 
gloomy  in  here." 

And  he  sat  down  before  the  fire.  Whiie  his  wet  shoes 
were  steaming  in  the  warmth  and  the  mud  was  drying 
on  his  soles,  he  rubbed  his  hands  cheerfully  as  he  said; 


56  UNE  VIE 

"I  think  it  is  going  to  freeze;  the  sky  is  clearing  in  the 
north,  and  it  is  full  moon  to-night;  we  shall  have  a  stinger 
to-night." 

Then  turning  to  his  daughter:  "Well,  little  one,  are 
you  glad  to  be  back  again  in  your  own  country,  in  your 
own  home,  with  the  old  folks?" 

This  simple  question  upset  Jeanne.  She  threw  herself 
into  her  father's  arms,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  kissed 
him  nervously,  as  though  asking  pardon,  for  in  spite  of 
her  honest  attempt  to  be  cheerful,  she  felt  sad  enough 
to  give  up  altogether.  She  recalled  the  joy  she  had  prom- 
ised herself  at  seeing  her  parents  again,  and  she  was  sur- 
prised at  the  coldness  that  seemed  to  numb  her  affection, 
just  as  if,  after  constantly  thinking  of  those  one  loves, 
when  at  a  distance  and  unable  to  see  them  at  any  moment, 
one  should  feel,  on  seeing  them  again,  a  sort  of  check  of 
affection,  until  the  bonds  of  their  life  in  common  had  been 
renewed. 

Dinner  lasted  a  long  time.  No  one  spoke  much.  Julien 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  his  wife. 

In  the  drawing-room  Jeanne  sat  before  the  fire  in  a 
drowsy  condition,  opposite  little  mother,  who  was  sound 
asleep.  Aroused  by  the  voices  of  the  men,  Jeanne  asked 
herself,  as  she  tried  to  rouse  herself,  if  she,  too,  was  going 
to  become  a  slave  to  this  dreary  lethargy  of  habit  that 
nothing  varies. 

The  baron  approached  the  fire,  and  holding  out  his 
hands  to  the  glowing  flame,  he  said,  smiling:  '^Ah,  that 
burns  finely  this  evening.  It  is  freezing,  children;  it  is 
freezing."  Then,  placing  his  hand  on  Jeanne's  shoulder 
and  pointing  to  the  fire,  he  said:  "See  here,  little  daugh- 
ter, that  is  the  best  thing  in  life,  the  hearth,  the  hearth, 
with  one's  own  around  one.  Nothing  else  counts.  But 
supposing  we  retire.     You  children  must  be  tired  out." 

When  she  was  in  her  room,  Jeanne  asked  herself  how 
she  could  feel  so  differently  on  returning  a  second  time 


UNE  VIE  57 

to  the  place  that  she  thought  she  loved.  Why  did  she 
feel  as  though  she  were  wounded?  Why  did  this  house, 
this  beloved  country,  all  that  hitherto  had  thrilled  her 
with  happiness,  now  appear  so  distressing? 

Her  eyes  suddenly  fell  on  her  clock.  The  little  bee 
was  still  swinging  from  left  to  right  and  from  right  to  left 
with  the  same  quick,  continuous  motion  above  the  scarlet 
blossoms.  All  at  once  an  impulse  of  tenderness  moved 
her  to  tears  at  sight  of  this  little  piece  of  mechanism  that 
seemed  to  be  alive.  She  had  not  been  so  affected  on  kiss- 
ing her  father  and  mother.  The  heart  has  mysteries  that 
no  arguments  can  solve. 

For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  she  was  alone, 
Julien,  under  pretext  of  fatigue,  having  taken  another 
room. 

She  lay  awake  a  long  time,  unaccustomed  to  being  alone 
and  disturbed  by  the  bleak  north  wind  which  beat  against 
the  roof. 

She  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  a  bright  light 
that  flooded  her  room.  She  put  on  a  dressing  gown  and 
ran  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 

An  icy  breeze,  sharp  and  bracing,  streamed  into  the 
room,  making  her  skin  tingle  and  her  eyes  water.  The 
sun  appeared  behind  the  trees  on  a  crimson  sky,  and  the 
earth,  covered  with  frost  and  dry  and  hard,  rang  out 
beneath  one's  footsteps.  In  one  night  all  the  leaves  had 
blown  off  the  trees,  and  in  the  distance  beyond  the  level 
ground  was  seen  the  long  green  line  of  water,  covered 
with  trails  of  white  foam. 

Jeanne  dressed  herself  and  went  out,  and  for  the  sake 
of  an  object  she  went  to  call  on  the  farmers. 

The  Martins  held  up  their  hands  in  surprise,  and  Mrs. 
Martin  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  and  then  they  made 
her  drink  a  glass  of  noyau.  She  then  went  to  the  other 
farm.  The  Couillards  also  were  surprised.  Mrs.  Couil- 
lard  pecked  her  on  the  ears  and   she  had   to   drink  a 


58  UNE  VIE 

glass   of   cassis.      Then    she   went   home    to   breakfast. 

The  day  went  by  like  the  previous  day,  cold  instead 
of  damp.  And  the  other  days  of  the  week  resembled  these 
two  days,  and  all  the  weeks  of  the  month  were  like  the 
first  week. 

Little  by  little,  however,  she  ceased  to  regret  far-off 
lands.  The  force  of  habit  was  covering  her  life  with  a 
layer  of  resignation  similar  to  the  limestone  formation  de- 
posited on  objects  by  certain  springs.  And  a  kind  of  in- 
terest for  the  thousand-and-one  little  insignificant  things 
of  daily  life,  a  care  for  the  simple,  ordinary  everyday 
occupations,  awakened  in  her  heart.  A  sort  of  pensive 
melancholy,  a  vague  disenchantment  with  life  was  growing 
up  in  her  mind.  What  did  she  lack?  What  did  she  want? 
She  did  not  know.  She  had  no  worldlv  desires,  no  thirst 
for  amusement,  no  longing  for  permissible  pleasures. 
What  then?  Just  as  old  furniture  tarnishes  in  time,  so 
everything  was  slowly  becoming  faded  to  her  eyes,  every- 
thing seemed  to  be  fading,  to  be  taking  on  pale,  dreary 
shades. 

Her  relations  with  Julien  had  completely  changed.  He 
seemed  to  be  quite  different  since  they  came  back  from 
their  honeymoon,  like  an  actor  who  has  played  his  part 
and  resumes  his  ordinary  manner.  He  scarcely  paid  any 
attention  to  her  or  even  spoke  to  her.  All  trace  of  love 
had  suddenly  disappeared7  and  he  seldom  came  into  her 
room  at  night. 

He  had  taken  charge  of  the  money  and  of  the  house, 
changed  the  leases,  worried  the  peasants,  cut  down  ex- 
penses, and  having  adopted  the  costume  of  a  gentleman 
farmer,  he  had  lost  his  polish  and  elegance  as  a  fiance. 
He  always  wore  the  same  smt,  although  it  was  covered 
with  spots.  It  was  an  old  velveteen  shooting  jacket  with 
brass  buttons,  that  he  had  found  among  his  former  ward- 
robe, and  with  the  carelessness  that  is  frequent  with  those 
who  no  longer  seek  to  please,  he  had  given  up  shaving, 


UNE  VIE  59 

and  his  long  beard,  badly  cut,  made  an  incredible  change 
for  the  worse  in  his  appearance.  His  hands  were  never 
cared  for,  and  after  each  meal  he  drank  four  or  five  glasses 
of  brandy. 

Jeanne  tried  to  remonstrate  with  him  gently,  but  he 
had  answered  her  so  abruptly:  "Won't  you  let  me  alone!" 
that  she  never  ventured  to  give  him  any  more  advice. 

She  had  adapted  herself  to  these  changes  in  a  manner 
that  surprised  herself.  He  had  become  a  stranger  to  her, 
a  stranger  whose  mind  and  heart  were  closed  to  her.  She 
constantly  thought  about  it,  asking  herself  how  it  was  that 
after  having  met,  loved,  married  in  an  impulse  of  affection, 
they  should  all  at  once  find  themselves  almost  as  much 
strangers  as  though  they  had  never  shared  the  same  room. 

And  how  was  it  that  she  did  not  feel  this  neglect  more 
deeply?  Was  this  life?  Had  they  deceived  themselves? 
Did  the  future  hold  nothing  further  for  her? 

If  Julien  had  remained  handsome,  carefully  dressed, 
elegant,  she  might  possibly  have  suffered  more  deeply. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  after  the  new  year  the  young 
couple  should  remain  alone  and  that  the  father  and  mother 
should  go  back  to  spend  a  few  months  at  their  house  in 
Rouen.  The  young  people  were  not  to  leave  the  "Pop- 
lars" that  winter,  so  as  to  get  thoroughly  settled  and  to 
become  accustomed  to  each  other  and  to  the  place  where 
all  their  life  would  be  passed.  They  had  a  few  neighbors 
to  whom  Julien  would  introduce  his  wife.  These  were  the 
Brisevllles,  the  Colteliers  and  the  Fourvilles. 

But  the  young  people  could  not  begin  to  pay  calls  be- 
cause they  had  not  as  yet  been  able  to  get  a  painter  to 
alter  the  armorial  bearings  on  the  carriage. 

The  old  family  coach  had  been  given  up  to  his  son-in- 
law  by  the  baron,  and  nothing  would  have  induced  him 
to  show  himself  at  the  neighboring  chateau  if  the  coat-of- 
arms  of  the  De  Lamares  were  not  quartered  with  those 
of  the  Le  Perthuis  des  Vauds. 


6o  '       UNE  VIE 

There  was  only  one  man  in  the  district  who  made  a 
specialty  of  heraldic  designs,  a  painter  of  Bolbec,  called 
Bataille,  who  was  in  demand  at  all  the  Norman  castles 
in  turn  to  make  these  precious  designs  on  the  doors  of 
carriages. 

At  length  one  morning  in  December,  just  as  they  were 
finishing  breakfast,  they  saw  an  individual  open  the  gate 
and  walk  toward  the  house.  He  was  carrying  a  box  on 
his  back.    This  was  Bataille. 

They  offered  him  some  breakfast,  and,  while  he  was  eat- 
ing, the  baron  and  Julien  made  sketches  of  quarterings. 
The  baroness,  all  upset  as  soon  as  these  things  were  dis- 
cussed, gave  her  opinion.  And  even  Jeanne  took  part  in 
the  discussion,  as  though  some  mysterious  interest  had 
suddenly  awakened  in  her. 

Bataille,  while  eating,  gave  his  ideas,  at  times  taking 
the  pencil  and  tracing  a  design,  citing  examples,  describing 
all  the  aristocratic  carriages  in  the  countryside,  and  seemed 
to  have  brought  with  him  in  his  ideas,  even  in  his  voice, 
a  sort  of  atmosphere  of  aristocracy. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  coffee,  they  all  went 
to  the  coach  house.  They  took  off  the  cover  of  the  car- 
riage and  Bataille  examined  it.  He  then  gravely  gave  hi? 
views  as  to  the  size  he  considered  suitable  for  the  design, 
and  after  an  exchange  of  ideas,  he  set  to  work. 

Notwithstanding  the  cold,  the  baroness  had  her  chair 
brought  out  so  as  to  watch  him  working,  and  then  her 
foot-stove,  for  her  feet  were  freezing.  She  then  began 
to  chat  with  the  painter,  on  all  the  recent  births,  deaths 
and  marriages  of  which  she  had  not  heard,  thus  adding 
to  the  genealogical  tree  which  she  carried  in  her  memory. 

Julien  sat  beside  her,  astride  on  a  chair.  He  was  smok- 
ing, spitting  on  the  ground,  listening  and  following  with 
his  glances  the  emblazoning  of  his  rank. 

Presently  old  Simon,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  vege- 
table garden,  his  spade  on  his  shoulder,  stopped  to  look 


UNE  VIE  6i 

at  the  work;  and  as  Bataille's  arrival  had  become  known 
at  the  two  farms,  the  farmers'  wives  soon  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance. They  went  into  raptures,  standing  one  at  either 
side  of  the  baroness,  exclaiming:  "My!  it  requires  some 
cleverness  all  the  same  to  fix  up  those  things." 

The  two  doors  could  not  be  finished  before  the  next 
day  about  eleven  o'clock.  Every  one  was  on  hand;  and 
they  dragged  the  carriage  outside  so  as  to  get  a  better 
view  of  it. 

It  was  perfect.  Bataille  was  complimented,  and  went 
off  with  his  box  on  his  back.  They  all  agreed  that  the 
painter  had  great  ability,  and  if  circumstances  had 
been  favourable  would  doubtless  have  been  a  great 
artist. 

Julien,  by  way  of  economy,  had  introduced  great  re- 
forms which  necessitated  making  some  changes.  The  old 
coachman  had  been  made  gardener,  Julien  undertaking 
to  drive  him.self,  having  sold  the  carriage  horses  to  avoid 
buying  feed  for  them.  But  as  it  was  necessary  to  have 
some  one  to  hold  the  horses  when  he  and  his  wife  got  out 
of  the  carriage,  he  made  a  little  cow  tender  named  Marius 
into  a  groom.  Then  in  order  to  get  some  horses,  he  in- 
troduced a  special  clause  into  the  Couillards'  and  Mar- 
tins' leases,  by  which  they  were  bound  to  supply  a  horse 
each,  on  a  certain  day  every  month,  the  date  to  be  fixed 
by  him;  and  this  would  exempt  them  from  their  tribute 
of  poultry. 

So  the  Couillards  brought  a  big  yellow  horse,  and  the 
Martins  a  small  white  animal  with  long,  undipped  coat, 
and  the  two  were  harnessed  up  together.  ?^Iarius,  buried 
in  an  old  livery  belonging  to  old  Simon,  led  the  carriage 
up  to  the  front  door. 

Julien,  looking  clean  and  brushed  up,  looked  a  little 
like  his  former  self;  but  his  long  beard  gave  him  a  common 
look  in  spite  of  all.  He  looked  over  the  horses,  the  car- 
riage, and  the  little  groom,  and  seemed  satisfied,  the  only 


62  UNE  VIE 


.^.'*% 


really  important  thing  to  him  being  the  newly  painted 
escutcheon. 

The  baroness  came  down  leaning  on  her  husband's 
arm  and  got  into  the  carriage.  Then  Jeanne  appeared. 
She  began  to  laugh  at  the  horses,  saying  that  the  white 
one  was  the  son  of  the  yellow  horse;  then,  perceiving 
Marius,  his  face  buried  under  his  hat  with  its  cockade, 
his  nose  alone  preventing  it  from  covering  his  face  alto- 
gether, his  hands  hidden  in  his  long  sleeves,  and  the  tail 
of  his  coat  forming  a  skirt  round  his  legs,  his  feet  encased 
in  immense  shoes  showing  in  a  comical  manner  beneath 
it,  and  then  when  he  threw  his  head  back  so  as  to  see,  and 
lifted  up  his  leg  to  walk  as  if  he  were  crossing  a  river,  she 
burst  into  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter. 

The  baron  turned  round,  glanced  at  the  little  bewildered 
groom  and  he,  too,  burst  out  laughing,  calling  to  his  wife: 
"Look  at  Ma-Ma-Marius!  Is  he  not  comical?  Heavens, 
how  funny  he  looks!" 

The  baroness,  looking  out  of  the  carriage  window,  was 
also  convulsed,  so  that  the  carriage  shook  on  its  springs. 

But  Julien,  pale  with  anger,  asked:  "What  makes  you 
laugh  like  that?    Are  you  crazy?" 

Jeanne,  quite  convulsed  and  unable  to  stop  laughing, 
sat  down  on  the  doorstep;  the  baron  did  the  same,  while, 
in  the  carriage,  spasmodic  sneezes,  a  sort  of  constant 
chuckling,  told  that  the  baroness  was  choking.  Presently 
there  was  a  motion  beneath  Marius'  livery.  He  had, 
doubtless,  understood  the  joke,  for  he  was  shaking  with 
laughter  beneath  his  hat. 

Julien  darted  forward  in  exasperation.  With  a  box  on 
the  ear  he  sent  the  boy's  hat  flying  across  the  lawn;  then, 
turning  toward  his  father-in-law,  he  stammered  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  rage:  "It  seems  to  me  that  you  should  be 
the  last  to  laugh.  We  should  not  be  where  we  are  now  if 
you  had  not  wasted  your  money  and  ruined  your  prop- 
erty.   Whose  fault  is  it  if  you  are  ruined?" 


UNE  VIE  63 

The  laughter  ceased  at  once,  and  ho  one  spoke. 
Jeanne,  now  ready  to  cry,  got  into  the  carriage  and  sat 
beside  her  mother.  The  baron,  silent  and  astonished, 
took  his  place  opposite  the  two  ladies,  and  Tulien  sat  on 
the  box  after  lifting  to  the  seat  beside  him  the  weeping 
boy,  whose  face  was  beginning  to  swell. 

The  road  was  dreary  and  appeared  long.  The  occu- 
pants of  the  carriage  were  silent.  All  three  sad  and  em- 
barrassed, they  would  not  acknowledge  to  one  another 
what  was  occupying  their  thoughts.  They  felt  that  they 
could  not  talk  on  indifferent  subjects  while  these  thoughts 
had  possession  of  them,  and  preferred  to  remain  silent 
than  to  allude  to  this  painful  subject. 

They  drove  past  farmyards,  the  carriage  jogging  along 
unevenly  with  the  ill-matched  animals,  putting  to  flight 
terrified  black  hens  who  plunged  into  the  bushes  and  dis- 
appeared, occasionally  followed  by  a  barking  wolf-hound. 

At  length  they  entered  a  wide  avenue  of  pine  trees,  at 
the  end  of  which  was  a  white,  closed  gate.  Marius  ran 
to  open  it,  and  they  drove  in  round  an  immense  grass 
plot,  and  drew  up  before  a  high,  spacious,  sad-looking 
building  with  closed  shutters. 

The  hall  door  opened  abruptly,  and  an  old,  paralyzed 
servant  wearing  a  black  waistcoat  with  red  stripes  par- 
tially covered  by  his  working  apron  slowiy  descended  the 
slantinsr  steDS.  He  took  the  visitors'  names  and  led  them 
into  an  im.mense  reception  room,  and  opened  with  difficulty 
the  \^enetian  blinds  which  vrere  ahvays  kept  closed.  The 
furniture  had  covers  on  it,  and  the  clock  and  candelabra 
were  wrapped  in  white  muslin.  An  atmosphere  of  mildew, 
an  atmosphere  of  forrp.er  daj^s,  damp  and  icy,  seemed  to 
permeate  one's  lungs,  heart  and  skin  with  melancholy. 

They  all  sat  dowm  and  waited.  They  heard  steps  in 
the  hall  above  them  that  betokened  unaccustomed  haste. 
The  hosts  were  hurriedly  dressing.  The  baroness,  who 
was  chilled,  sneezed  constantly.     Julien  paced  up  and 


64  UNE  VIE 

down.  Jeanne,  despondent,  sat  beside  her  mother.  The 
baron  leaned  against  the  marble  , mantelpiece  with  his 
head  bent  down. 

Finally,  one  of  the  tall  doors  opened,  and  the  Vicomte 
and  Vicomtesse  de  Briseville  appeared.  They  were  both 
small,  thin,  vivacious,  of  no  age  in  particular,  ceremonious 
and  embarrassed. 

After  the  first  greetings,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
to  say.  So  they  began  to  congratulate  each  other  for  no 
special  reason,  and  hoped  that  these  friendly  relations 
would  be  kept  up.  It  was  a  treat  to  see  people  when  one 
lived  in  the  country  the  year  round. 

The  icy  atmosphere  pierced  to  their  bones  and  made 
their  voices  hoarse.  The  baroness  was  coughing  now  and 
had  stopped  sneezing.  The  baron  thought  it  was  time  to 
leave.  The  Brisevilles  said:  "What,  so  soon?  Stay  a 
little  longer."  But  Jeanne  had  risen  in  spite  of  Julien's 
signals,  for  he  thought  the  visit  too  short. 

They  attempted  to  ring  for  the  servant  to  order  the 
carriage  to  the  door,  but  the  bell  would  not  ring.  The 
host  started  out  himself  to  attend  to  it,  but  foimd  that 
the  horses  had  been  put  in  the  stable. 

They  had  to  wait.  Every  one  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing to  say.  Jeanne,  involuntarily  shivering  with  cold, 
inquired  what  their  hosts  did  to  occupy  themselves  all  the 
year  round.  The  Brisevilles  were  much  astonished;  for 
they  were  always  busy,  either  writing  letters  to  their  aris- 
tocratic relations,  of  whom  they  had  a  number  scattered 
all  over  France,  or  attending  to  microscopic  duties,  as 
ceremonious  to  one  another  as  though  they  were  strangers, 
and  talking  grandiloquently  of  the  most  insignificant 
matters. 

At  last  the  carriage  passed  the  windows  with  its  ill- 
matched  team.  But  Marius  had  disappeared.  Thinking 
he  was  off  duty  until  evening,  he  had  doubtless  gone  for 
a  walk. 


UNE  VIE  65 

Julien,  perfectly  furious,  begged  them  to  send  him  home 
on  foot,  and  after  a  great  many  farewells  on  both  sides, 
they  set  out  for  the  "Poplars." 

As  soon  as  they  were  inside  the  carriage,  Jeanne  and 
her  father,  in  spite  of  Julien's  brutal  behaviour  of  the 
morning  which  still  weighed  on  their  minds,  began  to 
laugh  at  the  gestures  and  intonations  of  the  Brisevilles. 
The  baron  imitated  the  husband,  and  Jeanne  the  wife. 
But  the  baroness,  a  little  touchy  in  these  particulars,  said: 
"You  are  wrong  to  ridicule  them  thus;  they  are  people 
of  excellent  family."  They  were  silent  out  of  respect  for 
little  mother,  but  nevertheless,  from  time  to  time,  Jeanne 
and  her  father  began  again.  The  baroness  could  not  for- 
bear smiling  in  her  turn,  but  she  repeated:  "It  is  not  nice 
to  laugh  at  people  who  belong  to  our  class." 

Suddenly  the  carriage  stopped,  and  Julien  called  out 
to  someone  behind  it.  Then  Jeanne  and  the  baron,  leaning 
out,  saw  a  singular  creature  that  appeared  to  be  rolling 
along  toward  them.  His  legs  entangled  in  his  flowing 
coattails,  and  blinded  by  his  hat  which  kept  falling  over 
his  face,  shaking  his  sleeves  like  the  sails  of  a  windmill, 
and  splashing  into  puddles  of  water,  and  stumbling  against 
stones  in  the  road,  running  and  bounding,  Marius  was 
following  the  carriage  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

As  soon  as  he  caught  up  with  it,  Julien,  leaning  over, 
seized  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  sat  him  do\yn  beside 
him,  and  letting  go  the  reins,  began  to  shower  blows  on 
the  boy's  hat,  which  sank  down  to  his  shoulders  with  the 
reverberations  of  a  drum.  The  boy  screamed,  tried  to  get 
away,  to  jump  from  the  carriage,  while  his  master,  holding 
him  with  one  hand,  continued  beating  him  with  the 
other. 

Jeanne,  dumfounded,  stammered:  "Father — oh,  father!" 
And  the  baroness,  wild  with  indignation,  squeezed  her 
husband's  arm.  "Stop  him.  Jack!"  she  exclaimed.  The 
baron  quickly  lowered  the  front  windov/,  and  seizing  hold 
of  his  son-in-law's  sleeve,  he  sputtered  out  in  a  voice 


66  UNE  VIE 

trembling  with  rage:  "Have  you  almost  finished  beating 
that  child?" 

Julien  turned  round  in  astonishment:  "Don't  you  see 
what  a  condition  his  livery  is  in?" 

But  the  baron,  placing  his  head  between  them,  said: 
"Well,  what  do  I  care?  There  is  no  need  to  be  brutal  like 
that!" 

Julien  got  angry  again:  "Let  me  alone,  please;  this  is 
not  your  affair! "  And  he  was  raising  his  hand  again  when 
his  father-in-law  caught  hold  of  it  and  dragged  it  down  so 
roughly  that  he  knocked  it  against  the  wood  of  the  seat, 
and  he  roared  at  him  so  loud:  "If  you  do  not  stop,  I  shall 
get  out,  and  I  will  see  that  you  stop  it,  myself,"  that  Julien 
calmed  down  at  once,  and,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with- 
out replying,  he  whipped  up  the  horses,  who  set  out  at 
a  quick  trot. 

The  two  women,  pale  as  death,  did  not  stir,  and  one 
could  hear  distinctly  the  thumping  of  the  baroness' 
heart. 

At  dinner  Julien  was  more  charming  than  usual,  as 
though  nothing  had  occurred.  Jeanne,  her  father,  and 
Madame  Adelaide,  pleased  to  see  him  so  amiable,  fell  in 
with  his  mood,  and  when  Jeanne  mentioned  the  Brisevilles, 
he  laughed  at  them  himself,  adding,  however:  "All  the 
same,  they  have  the  grand  air." 

They  made  no  more  visits,  each  one  fearing  to  revive 
the  Marius  episode.  They  decided  to  send  New  Year's 
cards,  and  to  wait  until  the  warm  days  of  spring  before 
paying  any  more  calls. 

At  Christmas  they  invited  the  cure,  the  mayor  and  his 
wife  to  dinner,  and  again  on  New  Year's  Day.  These 
were  the  only  events  that  varied  the  monotony  of  their 
life.  The  baron  and  his  wife  were  to  leave  "The  Pop- 
lars" on  the  ninth  of  January.  Jeanne  wanted  to  keep 
them,  but  Julien  did  not  acquiesce,  and  the  baron  sent 
for  a  post-chaise  from  Rouen,  seeing  his  son-in-law's  cool- 
ness. 


UNE  VIE  67 

The  day  before  their  departure,  as  it  was  a  clear  frost, 
Jeanne  and  her  father  decided  to  go  to  Yport,  which  they 
had  not  visited  since  her  return  from  Corsica.  They 
crossed  the  wood  where  she  had  strolled  on  her  wedding- 
day,  all  wrapped  up  in  the  one  whose  lifelong  companion 
she  had  become;  the  wood  where  she  had  received  her 
first  kiss,  trembled  at  the  first  breath  of  love,  had  a  pre- 
sentiment of  that  sensual  love  of  which  she  did  not  become 
aware  until  she  was  in  the  wild  vale  of  Ota  beside  the 
spring  where  they  mingled  their  kisses  as  they  drank  of 
its  waters.  The  trees  were  now  leafless,  the  climbing  vines 
dead. 

They  entered  the  little  village.  The  empty,  silent 
streets  smelled  of  the  sea,  of  wrack,  of  fish.  Huge  brown 
nets  were  still  hanging  up  to  dry  outside  the  houses,  or 
stretched  out  on  the  shingle.  The  gray,  cold  sea,  with  its 
eternal  roaring  foam,  was  going  out,  uncovering  the 
green  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  toward  Fecamp. 

Jeanne  and  her  father,  motionless,  watched  the  fisher- 
men setting  out  in  their  boats  in  the  dusk,  as  they 
did  every  night,  risking  their  lives  to  keep  from  starv- 
ing, and  so  poor,  nevertheless,  that  they  never  tasted 
meat. 

The  baron,  inspired  at  the  sight  of  the  ocean,  mur- 
mured: "It  is  terrible,  but  it  is  beautiful.  How  magnifi- 
cent this  sea  is  one  which  the  darkness  is  falling,  and 
on  which  so  many  lives  are  in  peril,  is  it  not,  Jean- 
nette?" 

She  replied  with  a  cold  smile:  "It  is  nothing  to  the 
Mediterranean." 

Her  father,  indignant,  exclaimed:  "The  Mediterranean! 
It  is  oil,  sugar  water,  bluing  water  in  a  washtub.  Look 
at  this  sea,  how  terrible  it  is  with  its  crests  of  foam! 
And  think  of  all  those  men  who  have  set  out  on  it,  and 
who  are  already  out  of  sight." 

Jeanne  assented  with  a  sigh:  "Yes,  if  you  think  so." 
But  this  name,  "Mediterranean,"  had  wrung  her  heart 

n 


68  UNE  VIE 

afresh,  sending  her  thoughts  back  to  those  distant  lands 
where  her  dreams  lay  buried. 

Instead  of  returning  home  by  the  woods,  they  walked 
along  the  road,  mounting  the  ascent  slowly.  They  were 
silent,  sad  at  the  thought  of  the  approaching  separation. 
As  they  passed  along  beside  the  farmyards  an  odor  of 
crushed  apples,  that  smell  of  new  cider  which  seems  to 
pervade  the  atmosphere  in  this  season  all  through  Nor- 
mandy, rose  to  their  nostrils,  or  else  a  strong  smell  of  the 
cow*  stables.  A  small  lighted  window  at  the  end  of  the 
yard  indicated  the  farmhouse. 

It  seemed  to  Jeanne  that  her  mind  was  expanding,  was 
beginning  to  understand  the  psychic  meaning  of  things; 
and  these  little  scattered  gleams  in  the  landscape  gave  her, 
all  at  once,  a  keen  sense  of  the  isolation  of  all  human 
lives,  a  feeling  that  everything  detaches,  separates,  draws 
one  far  away  from  the  things  they  love. 

She  said,  in  a  resigned  tone:  "Life  is  not  always  cheer- 
ful." 

The  baron  sighed:  "How  can  it  be  helped,  daughter? 
We  can  do  nothing." 

The  following  day  the  baron  and  his  wife  went  away, 
and  Jeanne  and  Julien  were  left  alone. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Jeanne's  discovery 

Cards  now  became  a  distraction  in  the  life  of  the 
young  people.  Every  morning  after  breakfast,  Julien 
would  play  several  games  of  bezique  with  his  wife,  smoking 
and  sipping  brandy  as  he  played.  She  would  then  go 
up  to  her  room  and  sit  down  beside  the  window,  and  as 
the  rain  beat  against  the  panes,  or  the  wind  shook  the 
windows,  she  would  embroider  away  steadily.  Occasion- 
ally she  would  raise  her  eyes  and  look  out  at  the  gray 
sea  which  had  white-caps  on  it.  Then,  after  gazing  list- 
lessly for  some  time,  she  would  resume  her  work. 

She  had  nothing  else  to  do,  Julien  having  taken  the 
entire  management  of  the  house,  to  satisfy  his  craving  for 
authority  and  his  craze  for  economy.  He  was  parsimoni- 
ous in  the  extreme,  never  gave  any  tips,  cut  down  the 
food  to  the  merest  necessaries;  and  as  Jeanne  since  her 
return  had  ordered  the  baker  to  make  her  a  little  Nor- 
man "galette"  for  breakfast,  he  had  cut  do^Mi  this  extra 
expense,  and  condemned  her  to  eat  toast. 

She  said  nothing  in  order  to  avoid  recriminations,  argu- 
ments and  quarrels;  but  she  suffered  keenly  at  each  fresh 
manifestation  of  avarice  on  the  part  of  her  husband.  It 
appeared  to  her  low  and  odious,  brought  up  as  she  had 
been  in  a  family  where  money  was  never  considered.  How 
often  had  she  not  heard  her  mother  say:  "^Vhy,  money  is 
made  to  be  spent."     Julien  would  now  say:   "Will  you 

69 


70  UNE  VIE 

never  become  accustomed  to  not  throwing  money  away?" 
And  each  time  he  deducted  a  few -sous  from  some  one's 
salary,  or  on  a  note,  he  would  say  with  a  smile,  as  he 
slipped  the  change  into  his  pocket:  "Little  streams  make 
big  rivers." 

On  certain  days  Jeanne  would  sit  and  dream.  She 
would  gradually  cease  sewing  and,  with  her  hands  idle, 
and  forgetting  her  surroundings,  she  would  weave  one 
of  those  romances  of  her  girlhood  and  be  lost  in  some  en- 
chanting adventure.  But  suddenly  Julien's  voice  giving 
some  orders  to  old  Simon  would  snatch  her  abruDtlv  from 
her  dreams,  and  she  would  take  up  her  work  again,  say- 
ing: "That  is  all  over,"  and  a  tear  would  fall  on  her  hands 
as  she  plied  the  needle. 

Rosalie,  formerly  so  cheerful  and  alv/ays  sinsjing,  had 
changed.  Her  rounded  cheeks  had  lost  their  color,  and 
were  now  almost  hollow,  and  sometimes  had  an  earthy 
hue.  Jeanne  would  frequently  ask  her:  "Are  you  ill,  my 
girl?"  The  little  maid  would  reply:  "No,  madame," 
while  her  cheeks  would  redden  slightly  and  she  would 
retire  hastily. 

At  the  end  of  January  the  snow  came.  In  one  night 
the  whole  plain  was  covered  and  the  trees  next  morning 
were  white  with  icy  foam. 

On  one  of  these  mornings,  Jeanne  was  sitting  warm- 
ing her  feet  before  the  fire  In  her  room,  while  Rosalie,  who 
had  changed  from  day  to  day,  was  making  the  bed.  Sud- 
denly hearing  behind  her  a  kind  of  moan,  Jeanne  asked, 
without  turning  her  head:  "What  is  the  matter?" 

The  maid  replied  as  usual:  "Nothing,  madame";  but 
her  voice  was  weak  and  trembling. 

Jeanne's  thoughts  were  on  something  else,  when  she  no- 
ticed that  the  girl  was  not  moving  about  the  room.  She 
called:  "Rosalie!"  Still  no  sound.  Then,  thinking  she 
might  have  left  the  room,  she  cried  in  a  louder  tone: 
"Rosalie!"  and  she  was  reaching  out  her  arm  to  ring  the 


UNE  VIE  71 

bell,  when  a  deep  moan  close  beside  her  made  her  start 
up  with  a  shudder. 

The  little  servant,  her  face  livid,  her  eyes  haggard,  was 
seated  on  the  floor,  her  legs  stretched  out,  and  her  back 
leaning  against  the  bed.  Jeanne  sprang  toward  her. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  you — what  is  the  matter?"  she 
asked. 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  did  not  move.  She  stared  va- 
cantly at  her  mistress  and  gasped  as  though  she  were  in 
terrible  pain.  Then,  suddenly,  she  slid  down  on  her  back 
at  full  length,  clenching  her  teeth  to  smother  a  cry  of 
anguish. 

Jeanne  suddenly  understood,  and  almost  distracted, 
she  ran  to  the  head  of  the  staars,  crying:  "Julien, 
Julien!" 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  replied  from  below. 

She  hardly  knew  how  to  tell  him.  "It  is  Rosalie, 
who " 

JuHen  rushed  upstairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  and,  go-ing 
abruptly  into  the  room,  he  found  the  poor  girl  had  just 
been  delivered  of  a  child.  He  looked  round  with  a  wicked 
look  on  his  face,  and  pushing  his  terrified  wife  out  of  the 
room,  exclaimed:  "This  is  none  of  your  affair.  Go  away. 
Send  me  Ludivine  and  old  Simon." 

Jeanne,  trembling,  descended  to  the  kitchen,  and  then, 
not  daring  to  go  upstairs  again,  she  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  in  which  there  had  been  no  fire  since  her  parents 
left,  and  anxiously  awaited  news. 

She  presently  saw  the  man-servant  running  out  of  the 
house.  Five  minutes  later  he  returned  with  Widow  Dentu, 
the  nurse  of  the  district. 

Then  there  Yms  a  great  commotion  on  the  stairs  as 
though  they  -"^-^-re  carrying  a  wounded  person,  and  Julien 
came  in  and  t.  Id  Jeanne  that  she  might  go  back  ta  her 
room. 

She  trembled  as  if  she  had  witnessed  some  terrible  acci- 


72  UNE  VIE 

dent.     She  sat  down  again  before  the  fire,  and  asked: 
"How  is  she?" 

Julien,  preoccupied  and  nervous,  was  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room.  He  seemed  to  be  getting  angry,  and  did 
not  reply  at  first.  Then  he  stopped  and  said:  "What  do 
you  intend  to  do  with  this  girl?" 

She  did  not  understand,  and  looked  at  her  husband. 
"Why,  what  do  you  mean?    I  do  not  know." 

Then  suddenly  flying  into  a  rage,  he  exclaimed:  "We 
cannot  keep  a  bastard  in  the  house." 

Jeanne  was  very  much  bewildered,  and  said  at  the  end 
of  a  long  silence:  "But,  my  friend,  perhaps  we  could  put 
it  out  to  nurse?" 

He  cut  her  short:  "And  who  will  pay  the  bill?  You 
will,  no  doubt." 

She  reflected  for  some  time,  trying  to  find  some  way 
out  of  the  difficulty;  at  length  she  said:  "Why,  the  father 
will  take  care  of  it,  of  the  child ;  and  if  he  marries  Rosalie, 
there  will  be  no  more  difficulty." 

Julien,  as  though  his  patience  were  exhausted,  replied 
furiously:  "The  father! — the  father! — do  you  know  him 
—the  father?    No,  is  it  not  so?    Well  then ?" 

Jeanne,  much  affected,  became  excited:  "But  you  cer- 
tainly would  not  let  the  girl  go  away  like  that.  It  would 
be  cowardly!  We  will  inquire  the  name  of  the  man,  and 
we  will  go  and  find  him,  and  he  will  have  to  explain  mat- 
ters." 

Julien  had  calmed  down  and  resumed  his  pacing  up 
and  down.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  "she  will  not  tell  the 
name  of  the  man ;  she  will  not  tell  you  any  more  than  she 
will  tell  me — and,  if  he  does  not  want  her?  .  .  .  We 
cannot,  however,  keep  a  woman  and  her  illegitimate  child 
under  our  roof,  don't  you  understand?" 

Jeanne,  persistent,  replied:  "Then  he  must  be  a  wretch, 
this  man.  But  we  must  certa'nly  find  out  who  it  is,  and 
then  he  will  have  us  to  deal  with." 


UNE  VIE  73 

Julien  colored,  became  annoyed  again,  and  said:  "But 
— meanwhile ?" 

She  did  not  know  what  course  to  take,  and  asked: 
"What  do  you  propose?" 

"Oh,  I?  That's  very  simple.  I  would  give  her  some 
money  and  send  her  to  the  devil  with  her  brat." 

The  young  wife,  indignant,  was  disgusted  with  him. 
"That  shall  never  be,"  she  said.  "She  is  my  foster-sister, 
that  girl;  we  grew  up  together.  She  has  made  a  mistake, 
so  much  the  worse;  but  I  will  not  cast  her  out  of  doors 
on  that  account;  and,  if  it  is  necessary,  I  will  bring  up 
the  child." 

Then  Julien 's  wrath  exploded:  "And  we  should  earn 
a  fine  reputation,  we,  with  our  name  and  our  position! 
And  they  would  say  of  us  everywhere  that  we  were  pro- 
tecting vice,  harboring  beggars;  and  decent  people  would 
never  set  their  foot  inside  our  doors.  What  are  you  think- 
ing of?    You  must  be  crazy!" 

She  had  remained  quite  calm.  "I  shall  never  cast  off 
Rosalie;  and  if  you  do  not  wish  her  to  stay,  my  mother 
will  take  her;  and  we  shall  surely  succeed  in  finding  out 
the  name  of  the  father  of  the  child." 

He  left  the  room  in  exasperation,  banging  the  door 
after  him  and  exclaiming:  "WTiat  stupid  ideas  women 
have!" 

In  the  afternoon  Jeanne  went  up  to  see  the  patient. 
The  little  maid,  watched  over  by  W^idow  Dentu,  was  lying 
still  in  her  bed,  her  eyes  wide  open,  while  the  nurse  held 
the  new-born  babe  in  her  arms. 

As  soon  as  Rosalie  perceived  her  mistress,  she  began 
to  sob,  hiding  her  face  in  the  covers  and  shaking  with  her 
sorrow.  Jeanne  wanted  to  kiss  her,  but  she  avoided  it 
by  keeping  her  face  covered.  But  the  nurse  interfered, 
and,  drawing  away  the  sheet,  uncovered  her  face,  and  she 
let  Jeanne  kiss  her,  weeping  still,  but  more  quietly. 

A  meagre  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate;  the  room  was 


74  UNE  VIE 

cold;  tlie  child  was  crying.  Jeanne  did  not  dare  to  speak 
of  the  little  one,  for  fear  of  another  attack,  and  she  took 
her  maid's  hand  as  she  said  mechanically:  "It  will  not 
matter,  it  will  not  matter."  The  poor  girl  glanced  fur- 
tively at  the  nurse,  and  trembled  as  the  infant  cried,  and 
the  remembrance  of  her  sorrow  came  to  her  mind  occa- 
sionally in  a  convulsive  sob,  while  suppressed  tears  choked 
her. 

Jeanne  kissed  her  again,  and  murmured  softly  in  her 
ear:  ''We  will  take  good  care  of  it,  never  fear,  my  girl." 
Then  as  she  was  beginning  to  cry  again,  Jeanne  made  her 
escape. 

She  came  to  see  her  every  day,  and  each  time  Rosalie 
burst  into  tears  at  the  sight  of  her  mistress. 

The  child  was  put  out  to  nurse  at  a  neighbor's. 

Julien,  however,  hardly  spoke  to  his  wife,  as  though 
he  had  nourished  anger  against  her  ever  since  she  refused 
to  send  away  the  maid.  He  referred  to  the  subject  one 
day,  but  Jeanne  took  from  her  pocket  a  letter  from  the 
baroness  asking  them  to  send  the  girl  to  them  at  once  if 
they  would  not  keep  her  at  the  "Poplars."  Julien,  furious, 
cried:  "Your  mother  is  as  foolish  as  vou  are!"  but  he  did 
not  insist  any  more. 

Two  weeks  later  the  patient  was  able  to  get  up  and 
take  up  her  work  again. 

One  morning,  Jeanne  made  her  sit  down  and,  taking 
her  hands  and  looking  steadfastly  at  her,  she  said: 

"See  here,  my  girl,  tell  me  everything." 

Rosalie  began  to  tremble,  and  faltered: 

"What,  madame?" 

"Whose  is  it,  this  child?" 

The  little  maid  was  overcome  with  confusion,  and  she 
sought  wildly  to  withdraw  her  hands  so  as  to  hide  her 
face.  But  Jeanne  kissed  her  in  spite  of  herself,  and  con- 
soled her,  saying:  "It  is  a  misfortune,  but  cannot  be 
helped,  my  girl.     You  were  weak,  but  that  happens  to 


UNE  VIE  75 

many  others.  If  the  father  marries  you,  no  one  will  think 
of  it  again." 

Rosalie  sighed  as  if  she  were  suffering,  and  from  time 
to  time  made  an  effort  to  disengage  herself  and  run 
away. 

Jeanne  resumed:  "I  understand  perfectly  that  you  are 
ashamed;  but  you  see  that  I  am  not  angry,  that  I  speak 
kindly  to  you.  If  I  ask  you  the  name  of  the  man  it  is 
for  your  own  good,  for  I  feel  from  your  grief  that  he  has 
deserted  you,  and  because  I  wish  to  prevent  that.  Julien 
will  go  and  look  for  him,  you  see,  and  we  will  oblige  him 
to  marry  you;  and  as  we  will  employ  you  both,  we  will 
oblige  him  also  to  make  you  happy." 

This  time  Rosalie  gave  such  a  jerk  that  she  snatched 
her  hands  away  from  her  mistress  and  ran  off  as  if  she 
were  mad. 

That  evening  at  dinner  Jeanne  said  to  Julien:  "I  tried 
to  persuade  Rosalie  to  tell  me  the  name  of  her  betrayer. 
I  did  not  succeed.  You  try  to  find  out  so  that  we  can 
compel  this  miserable  man  to  marry  her." 

But  Julien  became  angry:  "Oh!  you  know  I  do  not 
wish  to  hear  anything  about  it.  You  wish  to  keep  this 
girl.    Keep  her,  but  do  not  bother  me  about  her." 

Since  the  girl's  illness  he  appeared  to  be  more  irritable 
than  ever;  and  he  had  got  into  the  way  of  never  speaking 
to  his  wife  without  shouting  as  if  he  were  in  a  rage,  while 
she,  on  the  contrary,  would  lower  her  voice,  be  gentle  and 
conciliating,  to  avoid  all  argument;  but  she  often  wept  at 
night  after  she  went  to  bed. 

In  spite  of  his  constant  irritability,  her  husband  had 
become  more  affectionate  than  customary  since  their  re- 
turn. 

Rosalie  was  soon  quite  well  and  less  sad,  although  she 
appeared  terrified,  pursued  by  some  unknown  fear,  and 
she  ran  away  twice  when  Jeanne  tried  to  question  her 
again. 


76  UNE  VIE 

Julien  all  at  once  became  more  amiable,  and  the  young 
wife,  clinging  to  vain  hopes,  also -became  more  cheerful. 
The  thaw  had  not  yet  set  in  and  a  hard,  smooth,  glittering 
covering  of  snow  extended  over  the  landscape.  Neither 
men  nor  animals  were  to  be  seen;  only  the  chimneys  of 
the  cottages  gave  evidence  of  life  in  the  smoke  that  as- 
cended from  them  into  the  icy  air. 

One  evening  the  thermometer  fell  still  lower,  and  Julien, 
shivering  as  he  left  the  table — for  the  dining-room  was 
never  properly  heated,  he  was  so  economical  with  the 
wood — rubbed  his  hands,  murmuring:  "It  will  be  warmer 
to-night,  won't  it,  my  dear?"  He  laughed  with  his  jolly 
laugh  of  former  days,  and  Jeanne  threw  her  arms  around 
his  neck:  "I  do  not  feel  well,  dear;  perhaps  I  shall  be 
better  to-morrow." 

"As  you  wish,  my  dear.  If  you  are  ill  you  must  take 
care  of  yourself."  And  they  began  to  talk  of  other 
things. 

She  retired  early.  Julien,  for  a  wonder,  had  a  fire 
lighted  in  her  room.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  it  was  burn- 
ing brightly,  he  kissed  his  wife  on  the  forehead  and  left 
the  room. 

The  whole  house  seemed  to  be  penetrated  by  the  cold; 
the  very  walls  seemed  to  be  shivering,  and  Jeanne  shiv- 
ered in  her  bed.  Twice  she  got  up  to  put  fresh  logs  on 
the  fire  and  to  look  for  dresses,  skirts,  and  other  gar- 
ments which  she  piled  on  the  bed.  Nothing  seemed 
to  warm  her;  her  feet  were  numbed  and  her  lower  limbs 
seemed  to  tingle,  making  her  excessively  nervous  and 
restless. 

Then  her  teeth  began  to  chatter,  her  hands  shook,  there 
was  a  tightness  in  her  chest,  her  heart  began  to  beat  with 
hard,  dull  pulsations,  and  at  times  seemed  to  stop  beat- 
ing, and  she  gasped  for  breath. 

A  terrible  apprehension  seized  her,  while  the  cold  seemed 
to  penetrate  to  her  marrow.     She  never  had  felt  such  a 


UNE  VIE  77 

sensation,  she  had  never  seemed  to  lose  her  hold  on  life 
like  this  before,  never  been  so  near  her  last  breath. 

"I  am  going  to  die,"  she  thought,  ''I  am  dying " 

And,  filled  with  terror,  she  jumped  out  of  bed,  rang  for 
Rosalie,  waited,  rang  again,  waited  again,  shivering  and 
frozen. 

The  little  maid  did  not  come.  She  was  doubtless  asleep, 
that  first,  sound  sleep  that  nothing  can  disturb.  Jeanne, 
in  despair,  darted  toward  the  stairs  in  her  bare  feet,  and 
groping  her  way,  she  ascended  the  staircase  quietly,  found 
the  door,  opened  it,  and  called,  "Rosalie!"  She  went  for- 
ward, stumbled  against  the  bed,  felt  all  over  it  with  her 
hands  and  found  that  it  was  empty.  It  was  empty  and 
cold,  and  as  if  no  one  had  slept  there.  Much  surprised, 
she  said:  "What!  Has  she  gone  out  in  weather  like 
this?" 

But  as  her  heart  began  to  beat  tumultuously  till  she 
seemed  to  be  suffocating,  she  went  downstairs  again  with 
trembling  limbs  in  order  to  wake  Julien.  She  rushed  into 
his  room  filled  with  the  idea  that  she  was  going  to  die, 
and  longing  to  see  him  before  she  lost  consciousness. 

By  the  light  of  the  dying  embers  she  perceived  Rosalie's 
head  leaning  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

At  the  cry  she  gave  they  both  started  to  their  feet; 
she  stood  motionless  for  a  second,  horrified  at  this  dis- 
covery, and  then  fled  to  her  room;  and  when  Julien,  at 
his  wit's  end,  called  "Jeanne!"  she  was  seized  with  an 
overmastering  terror  of  seeing  him,  of  hearing  his  voice, 
of  listening  to  him  explaining,  lying,  of  meeting  his  gaze; 
and  she  darted  toward  the  stairs  again  and  went  do\A'n. 

She  now  ran  along  in  the  darkness,  at  the  risk  of  fall- 
ing downstairs,  at  the  risk  of  breaking  her  neck  on  the 
stone  floor  of  the  hall.  She  rushed  along,  impelled  by  an 
imperious  desire  to  flee,  to  know  nothing  about  it,  to  see 
no  one. 

When  she  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  she  sat  down 


78  UNE  VIE 

on  one  of  the  steps,  still  in  her  nightdress,  and  in  bare 
feet,  and  remained  in  a  dazed  condition.  She  heard  Julien 
moving  and  walking  about.  She  started  to  her  feet  in 
order  to  escape  him.  He  was  starting  to  come  down- 
stairs and  called:-  "Listen,  Jeanne!" 

No,  she  would  not  listen  nor  let  him  touch  her  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers;  and  she  darted  into  the  dining-room  as 
if  fleeing  from  an  assassin.  She  looked  for  a  door  of 
escape,  a  hiding  place,  a  dark  corner,  some  way  of  avoid- 
ing him.  She  hid  under  the  table.  But  he  was  already 
at  the  door,  a  candle  in  his  hand,  still  calling:  "Jeanne!" 
She  started  off  again  like  a  hare,  darted  into  the  kitchen, 
ran  round  it  twice  like  a  trapped  animal,  and  as  he  came 
near  her,  she  suddenly  opened  the  door  into  the  garden 
and  darted  out  into  the  night. 

The  contact  with  the  snow,  into  which  she  occasionally 
sank  up  to  her  knees,  seemed  to  give  her  the  energy  of 
despair.  She  did  not  feel  cold,  although  she  had  little  on. 
She  felt  nothing,  her  body  was  so  numbed  from  the  emo- 
tion of  her  mind,  and  she  ran  along  as  white  as  the 
snow. 

She  followed  the  large  avenue,  crossed  the  wood,  crossed 
the  ditch,  and  started  off  across  the  plain. 

There  was  no  moon,  the  stars  were  shining  like  sparks 
of  fire  in  the  black  sky;  but  the  plain  was  light  with  a 
dull  whiteness,  and  lay  in  infinite  silence. 

Jeanne  walked  quickly,  hardly  breathing,  not  knowing, 
not  thinking  of  anything.  She  suddenly  stopped  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  She  stopped  short,  instinctively,  and 
crouched  down,  bereft  of  thought  and  of  will  power. 

In  the  abyss  before  her  the  silent,  invisible  sea  exhaled 
the  salt  odor  of  its  wrack  at  low  tide. 

She  remained  thus  some  time,  her  mind  as  inert  as  her 
body;  then,  all  at  once,  she  began  to  tremble,  to  tremble 
violently,  like  a  sail  shaken  by  the  wind.  Her  arms, 
her   hands,    her    feet,    impelled    by    an    invisible    force. 


UNE  VIE  79 

throbbed,  pulsated  wildly,  and  her  consciousness  awakened 
abruptly,  sharp  and  poignant. 

Old  memories  passed  before  her  mental  vision:  the  sail 
with  him  in  Pere  Lastique's  boat,  their  conversation,  his 
nascent  love,  the  christening  of  the  boat;  then  she  went 
back,  further  back,  to  that  night  of  dreams  when  she  first 
came  to  the  "Poplars."  And  now!  And  now!  Oh,  her 
life  was  shipwrecked,  all  joy  was  ended,  all  expectation  at 
an  end;  and  the  frightful  future  full  of  torture,  of  decep-  ' 
tion,  and  of  despair  appeared  before  her.  Better  to  die, 
it  would  all  be  over  at  once. 

But  a  voice  cried  in  the  distance:  "Here  it  is,  here  are 
her  steps;  quick,  quick,  this  way!"  It  was  Julien  who 
was  looking  for  her. 

Oh!  she  did  not  wish  to  see  him  again.  In  the  abyss 
down  yonder  before  her  she  now  heard  a  slight  sound, 
the  indistinct  ripple  of  the  waves  over  the  rocks.  She 
rose  to  her  feet  with  the  idea  of  throwing  herself  over  the 
cliff  and  bidding  life  farewell.  Like  one  in  despair,  she 
uttered  the  last  word  of  the  dying,  the  last  word  of  the 
young  soldier  slain  in  battle:  "Mother!" 

All  at  once  the  thought  of  little  mother  came  to  her 
mind,  she  saw  her  sobbing,  she  saw  her  father  on  his 
knees  before  her  mangled  remains,  and  in  a  second  she 
felt  all  the  pain  of  their  sorrow. 

She  sank  down  again  into  the  snow;  and  when  Julien 
and  old  Simon,  followed  by  Marius,  carrying  a  lantern, 
seized  her  arm  to  pull  her  back  as  she  was  so  close  to  the 
brink,  she  made  no  attempt  to  escape. 

She  let  them  do  as  they  would,  for  she  could  not  stir. 
She  felt  that  they  were  carrying  her,  and  then  that  she  was 
being  put  to  bed  and  rubbed  with  hot  cloths;  then  she 
became  unconscious. 

Then  she  had  a  nightmare,  or  was  it  a  nightmare?  She 
was  in  bed.  It  was  broad  daylight,  but  she  could  not  get 
up.    Why?     She  did  not  know.    Then  she  heard  a  little 


8o  UNE  VIE 

noise  on  the  floor,  a  sort  of  scratching,  a  rusthng,  and 
suddenly  a  mouse,  a  little  gray  mouse,  ran  quickly  across 
the  sheet.  Another  followed  it,  then  a  third,  who  ran  to- 
ward her  chest  with  his  little,  quick  scamper.  Jeanne  was 
not  afraid,  and  she  reached  out  her  hand  to  catch  the 
animal,  but  could  not  catch  it.  Then  other  mice,  ten, 
twenty,  hundreds,  thousands,  rose  up  on  all  sides  of  her. 
They  climbed  the  bedposts,  ran  up  the  tapestries,  covered 
the  bed  completely.  And  soon  they  got  beneath  the  cov- 
ers; Jeanne  felt  them  gliding  over  her  skin,  tickling  her 
I'mbs,  running  up  and  down  her  body.  She  saw  them  run- 
ning from  the  bottom  of  the  bed  to  get  into  her  neck  under 
the  sheets;  and  she  tried  to  fight  them  off,  throwing  her 
hands  out  to  try  and  catch  them,  but  always  finding  them 
empty. 

She  was  frantic,  wanted  to  escape,  screamed,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  she  were  being  held  down,  as  if  strong  arms 
enfolded  her  and  rendered  her  helpless;  but  she  saw  no 
one. 

She  had  no  idea  of  time.  It  must  have  been  long, 
a  very  long  time. 

Then  she  awoke,  weary,  aching,  but  quiet.  She  felt 
weak  very  weak.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  little  mother  seated  in  her  room  with  a  man 
whom  she  did  not  know._ 

How  old  was  she?  She  did  not  know,  and  thought  she 
was  a  very  little  girl.  She  had  no  recollection  of  any- 
thing 

The  big  man  said:  "Why,  she  has  regained  conscious- 
ness.' Little  mother  began  to  weep.  Then  the  big  man 
resumed:  "Come,  be  calm,  baroness;  I  can  ensure  her 
recovery  now.  But  do  not  talk  to  her  at  all.  Let  her 
sleep,  let  her  sleep." 

Then  it  seemed  to  Jeanne  that  she  remained  in  a  state 
of  exhaustion  for  a  long  time,  overcome  by  a  heavy  sleep 
as  soon  as  she  tried  to  think;  and  she  tried  not  to  remem- 


UNE  VIE  8 1 

ber  anything  whatever,  as  though  she  had  a  vague  fear 
that  reality  might  come  back  to  her. 

Once  when  she  awoke  she  saw  Julien,  alone,  standing 
beside  her;  and  suddenly  it  all  came  back  to  her,  as  if 
the  curtain  which  hid  her  past  life  had  been  raised. 

She  felt  a  horrible  pain  in  her  heart,  and  wanted  to 
escape  once  more.  She  threw  back  the  coverlets,  jumped 
to  the  floor  and  fell  down,  her  limbs  being  too  weak  to 
support  her. 

Julien  sprang  toward  her,  and  she  began  to  scream  for 
him  not  to  touch  her.  She  writhed  and  rolled  on  the 
floor.  The  door  opened.  Aunt  Lison  came  running  in 
with  Widow  Dentu,  then  the  baron,  and  finally  little 
mother,  puffing  and  distracted. 

They  put  her  back  into  bed,  and  she  immediately  closed 
her  eyes,  so  as  to  escape  talking  and  be  able  to  think 
quietly. 

Her  mother  and  aunt  watched  over  her  anxiously,  say- 
ing:    "Do  you  hear  us  now,  Jeanne,  my  little  Jeanne?" 

She  pretended  to  be  deaf,  not  to  hear  them,  and  did 
not  answer.  Night  came  on  and  the  nurse  took  up  her 
position  beside  the  bed.  She  did  not  sleep;  she  kept 
trying  to  think  of  things  that  had  escaped  her  memory  as 
though  there  were  holes  in  it,  great  white  empty  places 
where  events  had  not  been  noted  down. 

Little  by  little  she  began  to  recall  the  facts,  and  she 
pondered  over  them  steadily. 

Little  mother.  Aunt  Lison,  the  baron  had  come,  so  she 
must  have  been  very  ill.  But  Julien?  What  had  he 
said?  Did  her  parents  know?  And  Rosalie,  where  was 
she?  And  what  should  she  do?  What  should  she  do? 
An  idea  came  to  her — she  would  return  to  Rouen  and 
live  with  father  and  little  mother  as  in  old  days.  She 
would  be  a  widow;  that's  all. 

Then  she  waited,  listening  to  what  was  being  said 
around   her,    understcmding    everything    without    letting 


82  UNE  VIE 

them  see  it,  rejoiced  at  her  returning  reason,  patierit  a-:d 
crafty. 

That  eveni.^g,  at  last,  she  found  herself  alone  with  the 
baroness  and  called  to  her  in  a  low  tone:  "Little 
mother!"  Her  own  voice  astonished  her,  it  seemed 
strange.  The  baroness  seized  her  hands:  "My  daughter, 
my  darling  Jeanne!     My  child,  do  you  recognize  me?" 

"Yes,  little  mother,  but  you  must  not  weep;  v^e  have  a 
great  deal  to  talk  about.  Did  Julien  tell  you  why  I  ran 
away  in  the  snow?" 

"Yes,  my  darling,  you  had  a  very  dangerous  fever." 

**It  was  not  that,  mamma.  I  had  the  fever  afterward; 
but  did  he  tell  you  what  gave  me  the  fever  and  why  I 
ran  away?" 

"No,  my  dearie." 

"It  was  because  I  found  Rosalie  in  his  room." 

Her  mother  thought  she  was  delirious  again  and  soothed 
her,  saying:  "Go  to  sleep,  darling,  calm  yourself,  try 
to  sleep." 

But  Jeanne,  persistent,  continued:  "I  am  quite  sen- 
sible now,  little  mother.  I  am  not  talking  wildly  as  I 
must  have  done  these  last  days.  I  felt  ill  one  night  and 
I  went  to  look  for  Julien.  Rosalie  was  with  him  in  his 
room.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing,  for  sorrow, 
and  I  ran  out  into  the  snow  to  throw  myself  off  the 
cliff." 

But  the  baroness  reiterated,  "Yes,  darling,  you  have 
been  very  ill,  very  ill." 

"It  is  not  that,  mamma.  I  found  Rosalie  in  with  Julien, 
and  I  will  not  live  with  him  any  longer.  You  will  take 
me  back  with  you  to  Rouen  to  live  as  we  used  to  do." 

The  baroness,  whom  the  doctor  had  warned  not  to 
thwart  Jeanne  in  any  way,  replied:     "Yes,  my  darling." 

But  the  invalid  grew  impatient:  "I  see  that  you  do 
not  believe  me.  Go  and  fetch  little  father,  he  will  soon 
understand." 


UNE  VIE  83 

The  baroness  left  the  room  and  presently  returned, 
leaning  on  her  husband's  arm.  They  sat  down  beside 
the  bed  and  Jeanne  began  to  talk.  She  told  them  all, 
quietly,  in  a  weak  voice,  but  clearly;  all  about  Julien's 
peculiar  character,  his  harshness,  his  avarice,  and,  finally, 
his  infidelity. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  baron  saw  that  she  was 
not  delirious,  but  he  did  not  know  what  to  think,  w^hat 
to  determine,  or  w^hat  to  answer.  He  took  her  hand, 
tenderly,  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  put  her  to  sleep  with 
stories,  and  said:  "Listen,  dearie,  we  must  act  with 
prudence.  We  must  do  nothing  rash.  Try  to  put  up 
with  your  husband  until  we  can  come  to  some  decision — 
promise  me  this?" 

"I  will  try,  but  I  will  not  stay  here  after  I  get  well," 
she  replied. 

Then  she  added  in  a  lower  tone:  "WTiere  is  Rosalie 
now?" 

"You  will  not  see  her  any  more,"  replied  the  baron. 
But  she  persisted:  "Where  is  she?  I  wish  to  know." 
Then  he  confessed  that  she  had  not  left  the  house,  but 
declared  that  she  was  going  to  leave. 

On  leaving  the  room  the  baron,  filled  with  indignation 
and  wounded  in  his  feelings  as  a  father,  Vv-ent  to  look  for 
Julien,  and  said  to  him  abruptly:  "Sir,  I  have  come  to 
ask  you  for  an  explanation  of  your  conduct  toward  my 
daughter.  You  have  been  unfaithful  to  her  with  your 
rnaid,  v;hich  is  a  double  insult." 

Julien  pretended  to  be  innocent,  denied  everything 
positively,  swore,  took  God  as  his  witness.  Wh3it  proof 
had  they?  he  asked.  Was  not  Jeanne  delirious?  Had 
she  not  had  brain  fever?  Had  she  not  run  out  in  the 
snow,  in  an  attack  of  delirium,  at  the  very  beginning  of 
her  illness?  And  it  was  just  at  this  time,  when  she  was 
running  about  the  house  almost  naked,  that  she  pretends 
that  she  saw  her  maid  in  her  husband's  room! 


84  UNE  VIE 

And  he  grew  angry,  threatened  a  lawsuit,  became  furi- 
ous. The  baron,  bewildered,  made  excuses,  begged  his 
pardon,  and  held  out  his  loyal  hand  to  Julien,  who  refused 
to  take  it. 

When  Jeanne  heard  what  her  husband  had  said,  she 
did  not  show  any  annoyance,  but  replied:  "He  is  lying, 
papa,  but  we  shall  end  by  convicting  him." 

For  some  days  she  remained  taciturn  and  reserved, 
thinking  over  matters.  The  third  morning  she  asked  to 
see  Rosalie.  The  baron  refused  to  send  her  up,  saying 
she  had  left.  Jeanne  persisted,  saying:  "Well,  let  some 
one  go  and  fetch  her." 

She  was  beginning  to  get  excited  when  the  doctor 
came.  They  told  him  everything,  so  that  he  could  form 
an  opinion.  But  Jeanne  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  her 
nerves  all  unstrung,  and  almost  screamed:  "I  want 
Rosalie;  I  wish  to  see  her!" 

The  doctor  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  said  in  a  low 
tone:  "Calm  yourself,  madame;  any  emotion  may  lead 
to  serious  consequences,  for  you  are  enceinte." 

She  was  dumfounded,  as  though  she  had  received  a 
blow;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  felt  the  first  stirrings 
of  life  within  her.  Then  she  was  silent,  not  even  listening 
to  what  was  being  said,  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 
She  could  not  sleep  that  night  for  thinking  of  the  new 
life  that  VN^as  developing  in  her,  and  was  sad  at  the 
thought  that  it  was  Julien 's  child,  and  might  resemble 
him.  The  following  morning  she  sent  for  the  baron. 
"Little  father,"  she  said,  "my  resolution  is  formed;  I  wish 
to  know  everything,  and  especially  just  now;  you  under- 
stand, I  insist,  and  you  know  that  you  must  not  thwart 
me  in  my  present  condition.  Listen!  You  must  go  and 
get  M.  le  Cure.  I  need  him  here  to  keep  Rosalie  from 
telling  a  lie.  Then,  as  soon  as  he  comes,  send  him  up  to 
me,  and  you  stay  downstairs  with  little  mother.     And, 


UNE  VIE  85 

above  all  things,  see  that  Julien  does  not  suspect  any- 
thing." 

An  hour  later  the  priest  came,  looking  fatter  than 
ever,  and  puffing  like  the  baroness.  He  sat  down  in  an 
arm-chair  and  began  to  joke,  wiping  his  forehead  as  usual 
with  his  plaid  handkerchief.  "Well,  baroness,  I  do  not 
think  we  grow  any  thinner;  I  think  we  make  a  good 
pair."  Then,  turning  toward  the  patient,  he  said:  "Eh, 
what  is  this  I  hear,  young  lady,  that  we  are  soon  to 
have  a  fresh  baptism?  Aha,  it  will  not  be  a  boat  this 
time."  And  in  a  graver  tone  he  added:  "It  will  be  a 
defender  of  the  country;  unless" — after  a  moment's  re- 
flection— "it  should  be  the  prospective  mother' of  a  family, 
like  you,  madame,"  bowing  to  the  baroness. 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  room  opened  and  Rosalie 
appeared,  beside  herself,  weeping,  refusing  to  enter  the 
room,  clinging  to  the  door  fram.e,  and  being  pushed  for- 
ward by  the  baron.  Quite  out  of  patience,  he  thrust 
her  into  the  room.  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  remained  standing  there,  sobbing. 

Jeanne,  as  soon  as  she  saw  her,  rose  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture, whiter  than  the  sheets,  and  with  her  heart  beating 
wildly.  She  could  not  speak,  could  hardly  breathe.  At 
length  she  said,  in  a  voice  broken  with  emotion:  "I — I — 
will  not — need — to  question  you.  It — it  is  enough  for 
me  to  see  you  thus — to — to  see  your — your  shame  in  my 
presence." 

After  a  pause,  for  she  was  out  of  breath,  she  con- 
tinued: "I  had  M.  le  Cure  come,  so  that  it  might  be  like 
a  confession,  you  understand." 

Rosalie,  motionless,  uttered  little  cries  that  were  almost 
screams  behind  her  hands. 

The  baron,  whose  anger  was  gaining  ground,  seized 
her  arms,  and  snatching  her  hands  from  her  face,  he 
threw  her  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  saying:  "Speak I 
Answer!" 


86  UNE  VIE 

She  remained  on  the  ground,  in  the  position  assigned 
to  Magdalens,  her  cap  awry,  her  apron  on  the  floor,  and 
her  face  again  covered  by  her  hands. 

Then  the  priest  said:  "Come,  my  girl,  listen  to  what 
is  said  to  you,  and  reply.  We  do  not  want  to  harm  you, 
but  we  want  to  know  what  occurred." 

Jeanne,  leaning  over,  looked  at  her  and  said  :  "Is  it 
true  that  you  were  with  Julien  when  I  surprised  you?" 

Rosalie  moaned  through  her  fingers,  "Yes,  madame." 

Then  the  baroness  suddenly  began  to  cry  in  a  choking 
fashion,  and  her  convulsive  sobs  accompanied  those  of 
Rosalie. 

Jeanne,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  maid,  said:  "How 
long  had  this  been  going  on?" 

"Ever  since  he  came  here,"  faltered  Rosalie. 

Jeanne  could  not  understand.  "Ever  since  he  came — 
then — ever  since — ever  since  the  spring?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Ever  since  he  came  into  this  house?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

And  Jeanne,  as  if  overflowing  with  questions,  asked, 
speaking  precipitately: 

"But  how  did  it  happen?  How  did  he  approach  you? 
How  did  he  persuade  you?  What  did  he  say?  When, 
how  did  you  ever  yield  to  him?  How  could  you  ever 
have  done  it?" 

Rosalie,  removing  her  hands  from  her  face,  and  over- 
whelmed also  with  a  feverish  desire  to  speak,  said: 

"How  do  I  know,  myself?  It  v/as  the  day  he  dined 
here  for  the  first  time,  and  he  came  up  to  my  room.  He 
had  hidden  himself  in  the  loft.  I  did  not  dare  to  scream 
for  fear  of  making  a  scandal.  I  no  longer  knew  what  I 
was  doing.    Then  I  said  nothing  because  I  liked  him. 

Then  Jeanne  exclaimed  with  almost  a  scream: 

"But — your — your  child — is  his  child?" 

Rosalie  sobbed. 


UNE  VIE  87 


C(\} 


Yes,  madame." 

Then  they  were  both  silent.  The  only  sound  to  be 
heard  was  the  sobs  of  Rosalie  and  of  the  baroness. 

Jeanne,  quite  ove.rcome,  felt  her  tears  also  beginning 
to  flow;  and  they  fell  silently  down  her  cheeks. 

The  maid's  child  had  the  same  father  as  her  child! 
Her  anger  was  at  an  end;  she  now  was  filled  with  a 
dreary,  slow,  profound  and  infinite  despair.  She  pres- 
ently resumed  in  a  changed,  tearful  voice,  the  voice  of  a 
woman  who  has  been  crying: 

"When  we  returned  from — from  down  there — from  our 
journey — when  did  he  begin  again?" 

The  little  maid,  who  had  sunk  down  on  the  floor,  fal- 
tered:    "The  first  evening." 

Each  word  wrung  Jeanne's  heart.  So  on  the  very  first 
right  of  their  return  to  the  "Poplars"  he  left  her  for  this 
girl.     That  was  why  he  wanted  to  sleep  alone! 

She  now  knew  all  she  wanted  to  know,  and  exclaimed: 
"Go  away,  go  away!"  And  as  Rosalie,  perfectly  crushed, 
did  not  stir,  Jeanne  called  to  her  father:  "Take  her 
away,  carry  her  away!"  The  priest,  who  had  said  noth- 
ing as  yet,  thought  that  the  moment  had  arrived  for  him 
to  preach  a  little  sermon. 

"What  you  have  done  is  ^'ery  v.Torg,  my  daughter,  very 
wrong,  and  God  wdll  not  pardon  you  so  easily.  Consider 
the  hell  that  awaits  you  if  you  do  not  alv.ays  act  right. 
Now  that  you  have  a  child  you  must  belinve  yourself. 
No  doubt  madame  la  baronne  will  do  something  for  you. 
and  we  will  find  you  a  husband." 

He  w^ould  have  continued  speaking,  but  the  baron, 
having  again  seized  Rosalie  by  the  shoulders,  raised  her 
from  the  floor  and  dragged  her  to  the  door,  and  threw 
her  like  a  package  into  the  corridor.  As  he  turned  back 
into  the  room,  looking  paler  than  his  daughter,  the  priest 
resumed:  "Wliat  can  one  do?  They  are  all  like  that 
in  the  district.    It  is  shocking,  but  cannot  be  helped,  and 


88  UNE  VIE 

then  one  must  be  a  little  indulgent  toward  the  weaknesses 
of  our  nature.  They  never  get  married  until  they  have 
become  enceinte,  never,  madame."  He.  added,  smiling: 
"One  might  call  it  a  local  custom.  So,  you  see,  monsieur, 
your  maid  did  as  all  the  rest  do." 

But  the  baron,  who  was  trembling  with  nervousness, 
interrupted  him,  saying,  "She!  what  do  I  care  about  her! 
It  is  Julien  with  whom  I  am  indignant.  It  is  infamous, 
the  way  he  has  behaved,  and  I  shall  take  my  daughter 
away." 

He  walked  up  and  down  excitedly,  becoming  more  and 
more  exasperated:  "It  is  infamous  to  have  betrayed  my 
child,  infamous!  He  is  a  wretch,  this  man,  a  cad,  a 
wretch!  and  I  will  tell  him  so.  I  will  slap  his  face.  I 
will  give  him  a  horsewhipping!" 

The  priest,  who  was  slowly  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
seated  beside  the  baroness  still  in  tears,  and  endeavoring 
to  fulfill  his  office  of  a  peacemaker,  said:  "Come,  mon- 
sieur le  baron,  between  ourselves,  he  has  done  what  every 
one  else  does.  Do  you  know  many  husbands  who  are 
faithful?"  And  he  added  with  a  sly  good  humor:  "Come 
now,  I  wager  that  you  have  had  your  turn.  Your  hand 
on  your  heart,  am  I  right?"  The  baron  had  stopped  in 
astonishment  before  the  priest,  who  continued:  "Why, 
yes,  you  did  just  as  others  did.  Who  knows  if  you  did 
not  make  love  to  a  little  sugar  plum  like  that?  I  tell 
you  that  every  one  does.  Your  wife  was  none  the  less 
happy,. or  less  loved;  am  I  not  right?" 

The  baron  had  not  stirred,  he  was  much  disturbed. 
What  the  priest  said  was  true,  and  he  had  sinned  as 
much  as  any  one  and  had  not  hesitated  when  his  wife's 
maids  were  in  question.  Was  he  a  wretch  on  that  ac- 
count? Why  should  he  judge  Julien 's  conduct  so  severely 
when  his  own  had  not  been  above  blame? 

The  baroness,  still  struggling  with  her  sobs,  smiled 
faintly  at  the  recollection  of  her  husband's  escapades,  for 


UNE  VIE  89 

she  belonged  to  the  sentimental  class  for  whom  love 
adventures  are  a  part  of  existence. 

Jeanne,  exhausted,  lay  with  wide-open  eyes,  absorbed 
in  painful  reflection.  Something  Rosalie  had  said  had 
wounded  her  as  though  an  arrow  had  pierced  her  heart: 
"As  for  me,  I  said  nothing,  because  I  liked  him." 

She  had  liked  him  also,  and  that  was  the  only  reason 
why  she  had  given  herself,  bound  herself  for  life  to  him, 
why  she  had  renounced  everything  else,  all  her  cherished 
plans,  all  the  unknowTi  future.  She  had  fallen  into  this 
marriage,  into  this  hole  without  any  edges  by  which  one 
could  climb  out,  into  this  wretchedness,  this  sadness,  this 
despair,  because,  like  Rosalie,  she  had  liked  him! 

The  door  was  pushed  violently  open  and  Julien  ap- 
peared, with  a  furious  expression  on  his  face.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  Rosalie  moaning  on  the  stairs,  and  sus- 
pected that  something  was  up,  that  the  maid  had  prob- 
ably told  all.  The  sight  of  the  priest  riveted  him  to  the 
spot. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked  in  a  trembling 
but  quiet  tone. 

The  baron,  so  violent  a  short  while  ago,  did  not  venture 
to  speak,  afraid  of  the  priest's  remarks,  and  of  what  his 
son-in-law  might  say  in  the  same  strain.  Little  mother 
was  weeping  more  copiously  than  ever;  but  Jeanne  had 
raised  herself  with  her  hands  and  looked,  breathing 
quickly,  at  the  one  who  had  caused  her  such  cruel  sorrow. 
She  stammered  out:  "The  fact  is,  we  know  all,  all  your 
rascality  since — since  the  day  you  first  entered  this  house 
— we  know  that  the  child  of  this  maid  i^  your  child,  just 
as — as — mine  is — they  will  be  brothers."  Overcome  with 
sorrow  at  this  thought,  she  buried  herself  in  the  sheets  and 
wept  bitterly. 

Julien  stood  there  gaping,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or 
do.    The  priest  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Come,  come,  do  not  give  way  like  that,  my  dear  young 


90  UNE  VIE 

lady,  be  sensible."  He  rose,  approached  the  bed  and 
placed  his  warm  hand  on  the  despairing  girl's  forehead. 
This  seemed  to  soothe  her  strangely.  She  felt  quieted,  as 
if  this  strong  peasant's  hand,  accustomed  to  the  gesture 
of  absolution,  to  kindly  consolations,  had  conveyed  by  its 
touch  some  mysterious  solace. 

The  good  man,  still  standing,  continued:  "Madame,  we 
must  always  forgive.  A  great  sorrow  has  come  to  you ;  but 
God  in  His  mercy  has  balanced  it  by  a  great  happiness, 
since  you  will  become  a  mother.  This  child  will  be  your 
comfort.  In  his  name  I  implore  you,  I  adjure  you  to  for- 
give M.  Julien's  error.  It  will  be  a  new  bond  between 
you,  a  pledge  of  his  future  fidelity.  Can  you  remain  apart 
in  your  heart  from  him  whose  child  you  bear?" 

She  did  not  reply,  crushed,  mortified,  exhausted  as  she 
was,  without  even  strength  for  anger  or  resentment.  Her 
nerves  seemed  relaxed,  almost  severed,  she  seemed  to  be 
scarcely  alive. 

The  baroness,  who  seemed  incapable  of  resentment,  and 
whose  mind  was  unequal  to  prolonged  effort,  murmured: 
"Come,  come,  Jeanne." 

Then  the  priest  took  the  hand  of  the  young  man  and 
leading  him  up  to  the  bed,  he  placed  his  hand  in  that  of 
his  wife,  and  gave  it  a  little  tap  as  though  to  unite  them 
more  closely.  Then  laying  aside  his  professional  tone  and 
manner,  he  said  with  a  satisfied  air:  "Well,  now,  that's 
done.  Believe  me,  that  is  the  best  thing  to  do."  The 
two  hands,  joined  for  a  moment,  separated  immediately. 
Julien,  not  daring  to  kiss  Jeanne,  kissed  his  mother-in-law 
on  the  forehead,  turned  on  his  heel,  took  the  arm  of  the 
baron,  who  acquiesced,  happy  at  heart  that  the  thing  had 
been  settled  thus,  and  they  went  out  together  to  smoke  a 
cigar. 

The  patient,  overcome,  dozed  off,  while  the  priest  and 
little  mother  talked  in  a  low  tone. 

The  priest  explained  and  propounded  his  ideas,  to  which 


UNE  VIE  91 

the  baroness  assented  by  nodding  her  head.  He  said  in 
conclusion:  "Well,  then,  that  is  understood;  you  will  give 
this  girl  the  Barville  farm,  and  I  will  undertake  to  find 
her  a  husband,  a  good,  steady  fellow.  Oh!  with  a  prop- 
erty worth  twenty  thousand  francs  we  shall  have  no  lack 
of  suitors.  There  will  be  more  than  enough  to  choose 
from." 

The  baroness  was  smiling  now,  quite  happy,  with  the 
remains  of  two  tears  that  had  dried  on  her  cheeks. 

She  repeated:  "That  is  settled.  Barville  is  worth  at 
least  twenty  thousand  francs,  but  it  will  be  settled  on  the 
child,  the  parents  having  the  use  of  it  during  their  life- 
time." 

The  cure  rose,  shook  little  mother's  hand,  saying:  "Do 
not  disturb  yourself,  Madame  la  Baronne,  do  not  disturb 
yourself;  I  know  what  an  effort  it  is." 

As  he  went  out  he  met  Aunt  Lison  coming  to  see  her 
patient.  She  noticed  nothing;  they  told  her  nothing;  and 
she  knew  nothing,  as  usual. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


MATERNITY 


Rosalie  had  left  the  house.  Jeanne  felt  no  joy  at  the 
thought  of  being  a  mother,  she  had  had  so  much  sorrow. 
She  awaited  the  advent  of  her  child  without  curiosity,  still 
filled  with  the  apprehension  of  unknown  misfortunes. 

A  big  woman,  big  as  a  house,  had  taken  Rosalie's  place 
and  supported  the  baroness  in  her  monotonous  walks 
along  her  avenue.  The  baron  gave  his  arm  to  Jeanne, 
who  was  now  always  ailing,  while  Aunt  Lison,  uneasy, 
and  busied  about  the  approaching  event,  held  her  other 
hand,  bewildered  at  this  mystery  which  she  would  never 
know. 

They  all  walked  along  like  this  almost  in  silence  for 
hours  at  a  time,  while  Julien  was  riding  about  the  country 
on  horseback,  having  suddenly  acquired  this  taste.  Noth- 
ing ever  came  to  disturb  their  dreary  life.  The  baron, 
his  wife,  and  the  vicomte^paid  a  visit  to  the  Fourvilles, 
whom  Julien  seemed  to  be  already  well  acquainted  with, 
without  one  knowing  just  how.  Another  ceremonious  visit 
was  exchanged  with  the  Brisevilles,  who  were  still  hidden 
in  their  manor  house. 

One  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  two  persons,  a  lady 
and  gentleman  on  horseback,  rode  up  into  the  courtyard 
of  the  chateau.  Julien,  greatly  excited,  ran  up  to  Jeanne's 
room.  "Quick,  quick,  come  downstairs;  here  are  the 
Fourvilles.     They  have  just  come  as  neighbors,  knowing 

92 


UNE  VIE  93 

your  condition.  Tell  them  that  I  have  gone  out,  but  that 
I  will  be  back.  I  will  just  go  and  make  myself  present- 
able." 

Jeanne,  much  surprised,  went  downstairs.  A  pale, 
pretty  young  woman  with  a  sad  face,  dreamy  eyes,  and 
lustreless,  fair  hair,  looking  as  though  the  sunlight  had 
never  kissed  it,  quietly  introduced  her  husband,  a  kind 
of  giant,  or  ogre  with  a  large  red  mustache.  She  added: 
"We  have  several  times  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  M. 
de  Lamare.  We  heard  from  him  how  you  were  suffering, 
and  we  would  not  put  off  coming  to  see  you  as  neighbors, 
without  any  ceremony.  You  see  that  we  came  on  horse- 
back. I  also  had  the  pleasure  the  other  day  of  a  visit  from 
madame,  your  mother,  and  the  baron." 

She  spoke  with  perfect  ease,  familiar  but  refined. 
Jeanne  was  charmed,  and  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once. 
"This  is  a  friend,"  she  thought.    * 

The  Comte  de  Fourville,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  like 
a  bear  in  the  drawing-room.  As  soon  as  he  was  seated,  he 
placed  his  hat  on  the  chair  next  him,  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  his  hands,  placed  them  on  his  knees,  then  on 
the  arms  of  the  chair,  and  finally  crossed  his  fingers  as  if 
in  prayer. 

Suddenly  Julien  entered  the  room.  Jeanne  Vv^as  amazed 
cmd  did  not  recognize  him.  He  was  shaved.  He  looked 
handsome,  elegant,  and  attractive  as  on  the  day  of  their 
betrothal.  He  shook  the  comte's  hairy  paw,  kissed  the 
hand  of  the  comtesse,  w^hose  ivory  cheeks  colored  up 
slightly  w^hile  her  eyelids  quivered. 

He  be^ian  to  speak ;  he  was  charming  as  in  former  days. 
His  large  eyes,  the  mirrors  of  love,  had  become  tender 
again.  And  his  hair,  lately  so  dull  and  unkempt,  had 
regained  its  soft,  glossy  wave,  with  the  use  of  a  hairbrush 
and  perfumed  oil. 

At  the  moment  that  the  Fourvilles  were  taking  their 


94  UNE  VIE 

leave  the  comtesse,  turning  toward  him,  said:  "Would 
you  like  to  take  a  ride  on  Thursday,  dear  vicomte?" 

As  he  bowed  and  murmured,  "Why,  certainly,  madame," 
she  took  Jeanne's  hand  and  said  in  a  S3niipathetic  and 
affectionate  tone,  with  a  cordial  smile:  "Oh!  when  you  are 
well,  we  will  all  three  gallop  about  the  country.  It  will 
be  delightful.    What  do  you  say?" 

With  an  easy  gesture  she  held  up  her  riding  skirt  and 
then  jumped  into  the  saddle  with  the  lightness  of  a  bird, 
while  her  husband,  after  bo\\ing  awkwardly,  mounted  his 
big  Norman  steed.  As  they  disappeared  outside  the  gate, 
Julien,  who  seemed  charmed,  exclaimed:  "What  delightful 
people!  those  are  friends  who  may  be  useful  to  us." 

Jeanne,  pleased  also  without  knowing  why,  replied: 
"The  little  comtesse  is  charming,  I  feel  that  I  shall  love 
her,  but  the  husband  looks  like  a  brute.  Where  did  you 
meet  them?"  • 

He  rubbed  his  hands  together  good  humoredly.  "I  met 
them  by  chance  at  the  Brisevilles'.  The  husband  seems 
a  little  rough.  He  cares  for  nothing  but  hunting,  but  he 
is  a  real  noble  for  all  that." 

The  dinner  was  almost  cheerful,  as  though  some  secret 
happiness  had  come  into  the  house. 

Nothing  new  happened  until  the  latter  days  of  July, 
when  Jeanne  was  taken  ill.  As  she  seemed  to  grow  worse, 
the  doctor  was  sent  for  and  at  the  first  glance  recognized 
the  symptoms  of  a  premature  confinement. 

Her  sufferings  presently  abated  a  little,  but  she  was 
filled  with  a  terrible  anguish,  a  despairing  sinking,  some- 
thing like  a  presentiment,  the  mysterious  touch  of  death. 
It  is  in  these  moments  when  it  comes  so  near  to  us  that 
its  breath  chills  our  hearts. 

The  room  was  full  of  people.  Little  mother,  buried 
in  an  armchair,  was  choking  with  grief.  The  baron,  his 
hands  trembling,  ran  hither  and  thither,  carrying  things, 
consulting  'the  doctor  and  losing  his  head.     Julien  paced 


UNE  VIE  95 

up  and  down,  looking  concerned,  but  perfectly  calm,  and 
Widow  Dentu  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  an  ap- 
propriate expression,  the  expression  of  a  woman  of  expe- 
rience whom  nothing  astonishes.  The  cook,  Ludivine, 
and  Aunt  Lison  remained  discreetly  concealed  behind  the 
door  of  the  lobby. 

Toward  morning  Jeanne  became  worse,  and  as  her  in- 
voluntary screams  escaped  from  between  her  closed  teeth, 
she  thought  incessantly  of  Rosalie,  who  had  not  suffered, 
who  had  hardly  moaned,  who  had  borne  her  child  without 
suffering  and  without  difficulty,  and  in  her  wretched  and 
troubled  mind  she  continually  compared  their  conditions 
and  cursed  God,  whom  she  had  formerly  thought  to  be  just. 
She  rebelled  at  the  wicked  partiality  of  fate  and  at  the 
wicked  lies  of  those  who  preach  justice  and  goodness. 

At  times  her  sufferings  were  so  great  that  her  mind  was 
a  blank.  She  had  neither  strength,  life  nor  knowledge  for 
anything  but  suffering. 

All  at  once  her  sufferings  ceased.  The  nurse  and  the 
doctor  leaned  over  her  and  gave  her  all  attention.  Pres- 
ently she  heard  a  little  cry  and,  in  spite  of  her  weakness, 
she  unconsciously  held  out  her  arms.  She  was  suddenly 
filled  with  joy,  with  a  glimpse  of  a  new-found  happiness 
which  had  just  unfolded.  Her  child  was  bom,  she  w^as 
soothed,  happy,  happy  as  she  never  3^et  had  been.  Her 
heart  and  her  body  revived;  she  w^as  now-  a  m.other.  She 
felt  that  she  was  saved,  secure  from  all  despair,  for  she 
had  here  something  to  love. 

From  now  on  she  had  but  one  thought — her  child.  She 
was  a  fanatical  mother,  all  the  more  intense  because  she 
had  been  deceived  in  her  love,  deceived  in  her  hopes.  She 
would  sit  whole  days  beside  the  window,  rocking  the  little 
cradle. 

The  baron  and  little  mother  smiled  at  this  excess  of 
tenderness,  but  Julien,  whose  habitual  routine  had  been 
interfered  with  and  his  overweening  importance  diminished 


96  UNE  VIE 

by  the  arrival  of  this  noisy  and  all-powerful  tyrant,  un- 
consciously jealous  of  this  mite  of  a-man  who  had  usurped 
his  place  in  the  house,  kept  on  saying  angrily  and  impa- 
tiently: "How  wearisome  she  is  with  her  brat!" 

She  became  so  obsessed  by  this  affection  that  she  would 
pass  the  entire  night  beside  the  cradle,  watching  the  child 
asleep.  As  she  was  becoming  exhausted  by  this  morbid 
life,  taking  no  rest,  growing  weaker  and  thinner  and  be- 
ginning to  cough,  the  doctor  ordered  the  child  to  be  taken 
from  her.  She  got  angry,  wept,  implored,  but  they  were 
deaf  to  her  entreaties.  His  nurse  took  him  every  evening, 
and  each  night  his  mother  would  rise,  and  in  her  bare  feet 
go  to  the  door,  listen  at  the  keyhole  to  see  if  he  was 
sleeping  quietly,  did  not  wake  up  and  wanted  nothing. 

Julien  found  her  here  one  night  when  he  came  home 
late,  after  dining  with  the  Fourvilles.  After  that  they 
locked  her  in  her  room  to  oblige  her  to  stay  in  bed. 

The  baptism  took  place  at  the  end  of  August.  The 
baron  was  godfather  and  Aunt  Lison  godmother.  The 
child  was  named  Pierre-Simon-Paul  and  called  Paul  for 
short. 

At  the  beginning  of  September  Aunt  Lison  left  without 
any  commotion.  Her  absence  was  as  little  felt  as  her 
presence. 

One  evening  after  dinner  the  priest  appeared.  He 
seemed  embarrassed  as  if  he  were  burdened  by  some  mys- 
tery, and  after  some  idle  remarks,  he  asked  the  baroness 
and  her  husband  to  grant  him  a  short  interview  in  pri- 
vate. 

They  all  three  walked  slowly  down  the  long  avenue, 
talking  with  animation,  while  Julien,  who  was  alone  with 
Jeanne,  was  astonished,  disturbed  and  annoyed  at  this 
secret. 

He  accompanied  the  priest  when  he  took  his  leave,  and 
they  went  off  together  toward  the  church  where  the  An- 
gelus  was  ringing. 


UNE  VIE  97 

As  it  was  cool,  almost  cold,  the  others  went  into  the 
drawing-room.  They  were  all  dozing  when  Julien  came 
in  abruptly,  his  face  red,  looking  very  indignant. 

From  the  door  he  called  out  to  his  parents-in-law,  with- 
out remembering  that  Jeanne  was  there:  "Are  you  crazy, 
for  God's  sake!  to  go  and  throw  away  twenty  thousand 
francs  on  that  girl?" 

No  one  replied,  they  were  so  astonished.  He  contin- 
ued, bellowing  with  rage:  "How  can  one  be  so  stupid  as 
that?    Do  you  wish  to  leave  us  without  a  sou?" 

The  baron,  who  had  recovered  his  composure,  attempted 
to  stop  him:  "Keep  still!  Remember  that  you  are  speak- 
ing before  your  wife." 

But  Julien  was  trembling  with  excitement:  "As  if  I 
cared;  she  knows  all  about  it,  anyway.  It  is  robbing 
her." 

Jeanne,  bewildered,  looked  at  him  without  understand- 
ing.   She  faltered:  "What  in  the  vv^orld  is  the  matter?" 

Julien  then  turned  toward  her,  to  try  and  get  her  on 
his  side  as  a  partner  who  had  been  cheated  out  of  an  un- 
expected fortune.  He  hurriedly  told  her  about  the  con- 
spiracy to  marry  off  Rosalie  and  about  the  gift  of  the 
Barville  property,  which  was  worth  at  least  twenty  thou- 
sand francs.  He  said:  "Your  parents  are  crazy,  my  dear, 
crazy  enough  to  be  shut  up!  Twenty  thousand  francs! 
twenty  thousand  francs!  Why,  they  have  lost  their  heads! 
Twenty  thousand  francs  for  a  bastard!" 

Jeanne  listened  without  emotion  and  without  anger,  as- 
tonished at  her  own  calmness,  indifferent  now  to  everything 
but  her  o\^ti  child. 

The  baron  was  raging,  but  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
He  finally  burst  forth  and,  stamping  his  foot,  exclaimed: 
"Think  of  what  you  are  saying;  it  is  disgusting.  Whose 
fault  was  it  if  we  had  to  give  this  girl-mother  a  dowry? 
Whose  child  is  it?    You  would  like  to  abandon  it  now!" 

Julien,  amazed  at  the  baron's  violence,  looked  at  him 


98  UNE  VIE 

fixedly.  He  then  resumed  in  a  calmer  tone:  "But  fifteen 
hundred  francs  would  be  quite  entDugh.  They  all  have 
children  before  they  are  legally  married.  It  makes  no 
difference  whose  child  it  is,  in  any  case.  Instead  of  giving 
one  of  your  farms,  to  the  value  of  twenty  thousand  francs, 
in  addition  to  making  the  world  aware  of  what  has  hap- 
pened, you  should,  to  say  the  least,  have  had  some  regard 
for  our  name  and  our  position." 

He  spoke  in  a  severe  tone  like  a  man  who  stood  on  his 
rights  and  was  convinced  of  the  logic  of  his  argument. 
The  baron,  disturbed  at  this  unexpected  discussion,  stood 
there  gaping  at  him.  Julien  then,  seeing  his  advantage, 
concluded:  "Happily,  nothing  has  yet  been  settled.  I 
know  the  3^oung  fellow  who  is  going  to  marry  her.  He  is 
an  honest  chap  and  we  can  make  a  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment with  him.    I  will  take  charge  of  the  matter." 

And  he  went  out  immediately,  fearing  no  doubt  to  con- 
tinue the  discussion,  and  pleased  that  he  had  had  the  last 
word,  a  proof,  he  thought,  that  they  acquiesced  in  his 
views. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  room,  however,  the  baron 
exclaimed:  "Oh,  that  is  going  too  far,  much  too  far!" 

But  Jeanne,  happening  to  look  up  at  her  father's  be- 
wildered face,  began  to  laugh  with  her  clear,  ringing  laugh 
of  former  days,  when  anything  amused  her.  She  said: 
"Father,  father,  did  you  hear  the  tone  in  which  he  said: 
'Twenty  thousand  francs?'  " 

Little  mother,  whose  mirth  was  as  ready  as  her  tears, 
as  she  recalled  her  son-in-law's  angry  expression,  has  in- 
dignant exclamations  and  his  refusal  to  allow  the  girl 
whom  he  had  led  astray  to  be  given  money  that  did  not 
belong  to  him,  delighted  also  at  Jeanne's  mirth,  gave  way 
to  little  bursts  of  laughter  till  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 
The  baron  caught  the  contagion,  and  all  three  laughed  to 
kill  themselves  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  good  old  days. 


UNE  VIE  99 

As  soon  as  they  quieted  down  a  little  Jeanne  said:  "How 
strange  it  is  that  all  this  does  not  affect  me.  I  look  upon 
him  now  as  a  stranger.  I  cannot  believe  that  I  am  his 
wife.  You  see  how  I  can  laugh  at  his — ^his — want  of 
delicacy." 

And  without  knowing  why  they  all  three  embraced  each 
other,  smiling  and  happy. 

Two  days  later,  after  breakfast,  just  as  Julien  had 
started  away  from  the  house  on  horseback,  a  strapping 
young  fellow  from  twenty-one  to  twenty-five  years  old, 
clad  in  a  brand-new  blue  blouse  with  wide  sleeves  button- 
ing at  the  wrist,  slyly  jumped  over  the  gate,  as  though 
he  had  been  there  awaiting  his  opportunity  all  the  morn- 
ing, crept  along  the  Couillards'  ditch,  came  round  the 
chateau,  and  cautiously  approached  the  baron  and  his 
wife,  who  were  still  sitting  under  the  plane-tree. 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  advanced,  bowing  in  an  awk- 
ward manner.  As  soon  as  he  was  close  to  them  he  said: 
"Your  servant.  Monsieur  le  Baron,  madame  and  the  com- 
pany." Then,  as  no  one  replied,  he  said:  "It  is  I,  I  am 
Desire  Lecocq." 

As  the  name  conveyed  nothing  to  them,  the  baron  asked, 
"What  do  you  w^ant?" 

Then,  altogether  upset  at  the  necessity  of  explaining 
himself,  the  young  fellow  stuttered  out  as  he  gazed  alter- 
nately at  his  cap,  which  he  held  in  his  hands,  and  at  the 
roof  of  the  chateau:   "It  was  M'sieu  le  Cure  w^ho  said 

sometiiing  to  me  about  this  matter "     And  then  he 

stopped,  fearing  he  might  say  too  much  and  compromise 
his  own  interests. 

The  other,  lowering  his  voice,  blurted  out:  "That  mat- 
ter of  your  maid — Rosalie " 

Jeanne,  w^ho  had  guessed  what  was  coming,  had  risen 
and  moved  away  with  her  infant  in  her  arms. 

"Come  nearer,"  said  the  baron,  pointing  to  the  chair 


loo  UNE  VIE 

his  daughter  had  just  left.  The  peasant  sat  down,  mur- 
muring: "You  are  very  good."  Theji  he  waited  as  though 
he  had  no  more  to  say.  After  a  long  silence,  he  screwed 
up  courage,  and  looking  up  at  the  sky,  remarked:  "There's 
fine  weather  for  the  time  of  year.  But  the  earth  will  be 
none  the  better  for  it,  as  the  seed  is  already  sown."  And 
then  he  was  silent  again. 

The  baron  was  growing  impatient.  He  plunged  right 
into  the  subject  and  said  drily:  "Then  it  is  you  who  are 
going  to  marry  Rosalie?" 

The  man  at  once  became  uneasy,  his  Norman  caution 
being  on  the  alert.  He  replied  with  more  anim.ation,  but 
with  a  tinge  of  defiance:  "That  depends;  perhaps  yes, 
perhaps  no;  it  depends." 

The  baron,  annoyed  at  this  hedging,  exclaimed  angrily: 
"Answer  frankly,  damn  it!  Was  this  what  you  came  here 
for?    Yes  or  no!     Will  you  marry  her?    Yes  or  no!" 

The  bewildered  man  looked  steadfastly  at  his  feet:  "If 
it  is  as  M'sieu  le  Cure  said,  I  will  take  her,  but  if  it  is  as 
M'sieu  Julien  said,  I  will  not  take  her." 

"What  did  M.  Julien  tell  you?" 

"M'sieu  Julien  told  me  fifteen  hundred  francs  and 
M'sieu  le  Cure  told  me  that  I  should  have  twenty  thou- 
sand. I  will  do  it  for  twenty  thousand,  but  I  will  not  do 
it  for  fifteen  hundred." 

The  baroness,  who  wasTjuried  in  her  easy  chair,  began 
to  giggle  at  the  anxious  expression  of  the  peasant,  who, 
not  understanding  this  frivolity,  glanced  at  her  angrily 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  waited  in  silence. 

The  baron,  who  was  embarrassed  at  this  bargaining, 
cut  it  short  by  saying:  "I  told  M.  le  Cure  that  you  should 
have  the  Barville  farm  during  your  lifetime  and  that  then 
it  would  revert  to  the  child.  It  is  worth  twenty  thousand 
francs.    I  do  not  go  back  on  my  word.    Is  it  settled?    Yes 


or  no!" 


The  man  smiled  with  a  humble  and  satisfied  expression, 


UNE  VIE  loi 

and  suddenly  becoming  loquacious,  saM:  "Oh,  in  that 
case,  I  will  not  say  no.  That  was  all  that  stood  in  my 
way.  When  M'sieu  le  Cure  spoke  to  me,  I  was  ready  at 
once,  by  gosh!  and  I  was  very  pleased  lo  acccmmodaie 
the  baron  who  was  giving  me  that.  I  said  to  myself,  Ts 
it  not  true  that  when  people  are  willing  to  do  each  other 
favors,  they  can  always  find  a  way  and  can  make  it  worth 
while?'  But  M'sieu  Julien  came  to  see  me,  and  it  was 
only  fifteen  hundred  francs.  I  said  to  myself:  T  must 
see  about  that,'  and  so  I  came  here.  That  is  not  to  say 
that  I  did  not  trust  you,  but  I  wanted  to  know.  Short 
accounts  make  long  friends.  Is  not  that  true,  M'sieu  le 
Baron?" 

The  baron  interrupted  him  by  asking,  "When  do  you 
wish  to  get  married?" 

The  man  became  timid  again,  very  much  embarrassed, 
and  finally  said,  hesitatingly:  "I  will  not  do  it  until  I  get 
a  little  paper." 

This  time  the  baron  got  angry:  "Doggone  it!  you  will 
have  the  marriage  contract.  That  is  the  best  kind  of 
paper." 

But  the  peasant  was  stubborn:  "Meanwhile  I  might 
take  a  little  turn;  it  will  not  be  dark  for  a  while." 

The  baron  rose  to  make  an  end  of  the  matter:  "Answer 
yes  or  no  at  once.  If  you  do  not  wish  her,  say  so;  I  have 
another  suitor." 

The  fear  of  a  rival  terrified  the  crafty  Norman.  He 
suddenly  made  up  his  mind  and  held  out  his  hand,  as  after 
buying  a  cow,  saying:  "Put  it  there,  M'sieu  le  Baron;  it 
is  a  bargain.    Whoever  draws  back  is  a  skunk!" 

The  baron  shook  his  hand,  then  called  out:  "Ludivine!" 
The  cook  appeared  at  the  window.  "Bring  us  a  bottle  of 
wine."  They  clinked  glasses  to  seal  the  matter  and  the 
young  peasant  v;ent  off  with  a  light  tread. 

Nothing  was  said  to  Julien  about  this  visit.  The  con- 
tract was  drawn  up  with  all  secrecy  and  as  soon  as  the 


102  UNE  VIE 

banns  were  piib,li=>hed  the  wedding  took  place  one  Mon- 
>iay  morning,.  »  ,    . , 

.  /V^  neighbor  carried  the  child  to  church,  walking  behind 
tlie  bride  aud  groom,,  as  a  sure  sign  of  good  luck.  And 
no  one  in  all  the  district  was  surprised;  they  simply  en- 
vied Desire  Lecocq.  "He  was  bom  with  a  caul,"  they 
said,  with  a  sly  smile  into  which  there  entered  no  resent- 
ment. 

Julien  was  terribly  angry  and  made  such  a  scene  that 
his  parents-in-law  cut  short  their  visit  to  the  "Poplars." 
Jeanne  was  only  moderately  sad  at  their  departure,  for 
little  Paul  had  become  for  her  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
happiness. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEATH    OF    LA   BARONNE 

As  Jeanne's  health  was  quite  restored,  they  determineu 
to  go  and  return  the  Fourvilles'  visit  and  also  to  call  on 
the  Marquis  de  Coutelier. 

Julien  had  bought  at  a  sale  a  new  one-horse  phaeton, 
so  that  they  could  go  out  twice  a  month.  They  set  out 
one  fine  December  morning,  and,  after  driving  for  two 
hours  across  the  plains  of  Normandy,  they  began  to  de- 
scend a  little  slope  into  a  little  valley,  the  sides  of  which 
were  wooded,  while  the  valley  itself  was  cultivated.  After 
an  abrupt  turn  in  the  valley  they  saw  the  Chateau  of 
Vrillette,  a  wooded  slope  on  one  side  of  it  and  a  large  pond 
on  the  other,  out  of  which  rose  one  of  its  walls  and  w^hich 
was  bounded  by  a  wood  of  tall  pine  trees  that  formed 
the  other  side  of  the  valley. 

Julien  explained  all  the  portions  of  the  building  to 
Jeanne,  like  one  w^ho  knows  his  subject  thoroughly,  and 
went  into  raptures  over  its  beauty,  adding:  "It  is  full  of 
game,  this  country.  The  comte  loves  to  hunt  here.  This 
is  a  true  seignorial  residence." 

The  hall  door  was  opened  and  the  pale  comtesse  ap- 
peared, coming  forward  to  meet  the  visitors,  all  smiles, 
and  wearing  a  long-trained  dress,  like  a  chatelaine  of 
olden  times.  She  looked  a  fitting  lady  of  the  lake,  bom 
to  inhabit  this  fairy  castle. 

The  comtesse  took  both  Jeanne's  hands,  as  if  she  had 

103 


104  UNE  VIE 

known  her  all  her  life,  and  made  her  sit  down  beside  her 
in  a  low  chair,  while  Julien,  all  of  whose  forgotten  elegance 
seemed  to  have  revived  within  the  past  five  months,  chatted 
and  smiled  quietly  and  familiarly. 

The  comtesse  and  he  talked  of  their  horseback  rides. 
She  was  laughing  at  his  manner  of  mounting  a  horse  and 
called  him  "Le  Chevalier  Trebuche,"  and  he  smiled  also, 
having  nicknamed  her  "The  Amazon  Queen."  A  gun 
fired  beneath  the  windows  caused  Jeanne  to  give  a  little 
sr^p^^m.    It  was  the  comte,  who  had  killed  a  teal. 

His  wife  called  to  him.  A  sound  of  oars  was  heard, 
a  boat  grinding  against  the  stones,  and  he  appeared,  enor- 
mous, booted,  followed  by  two  drenched  dogs  of  a  ruddy 
color  like  himself,  who  lay  down  on  the  mat  outside  the 
door. 

He  seemed  more  at  ease  in  his  own  home,  and  was 
delighted  to  see  his  visitors.  He  put  some  wood  on  the 
fire,  sent  for  madeira  and  biscuits  and  then  exclaimed 
suddenly:  "Why,  you  will  take  dinner  with  us,  of  course." 

Jeanne,  whose  child  was  never  out  of  her  thoughts,  de- 
clined. He  insisted,  and  as  she  could  not  be  persuaded, 
Julien  made  a  gesture  of  annoyance.  She  feared  to  arouse 
his  ugly,  quarrelsome  temper,  and  although  she  was  very 
unhappy  at  the  thought  that  she  should  not  see  Paul  until 
the  next  day,  she  consented  to  stay. 

The  afternoon  was  delightful.  They  first  visited  the 
springs  which  bubbled  up  at  the  foot  of  a  mossy  rock  and 
then  took  a  row  on  the  pond.  At  one  end  of  the  boat 
Julien  and  the  comtesse,  wrapped  in  shawls,  were  smiling 
happily  like  those  who  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for. 

A  huge  fire  was  blazing  in  the  spacious  reception  room, 
which  imparted  a  sense  of  warmth  and  contentment.  The 
comte  seized  his  wife  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her  from  the 
floor  as  though  she  had  been  a  child  and  gave  her  a  hearty 
kiss  on  each  cheek,  like  a  man  satisfied  with  the  world. 

Jeanne,  smiling,  looked  at  this  good  giant  whom  one 


UNE  VIE  105 

would  have  thought  was  an  ogre  at  the  very  sight  of  his 
mustaches,  and  she  thought:  "How  one  may  be  deceived 
each  day  about  everybody."  Then,  almost  involuntarily, 
she  glanced  at  Julien  standing  in  the  doorway,  looking 
hort-ibly  pale  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  comte.  She 
approached  him  and  said  in  a  low  tone:  "Are  you  ill? 
What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  He  answered  her  angrily: 
"Nothing.    Let  me  alone!    I  was  cold." 

When  they  went  into  the  dining-room  the  count  asked 
if  he  might  let  his  dogs  come  in,  and  they  settled  them- 
selves one  on  either  side  of  their  master. 

After  dinner,  as  Jeanne  and  Julien  were  preparing  to 
leave,  M.  de  Fourville  kept  them  a  little  longer  to  look 
at  some  fishing  by  torchlight.  When  they  finally  set  out, 
wrapped  up  in  their  cloaks  and  some  rugs  they  had  bor- 
rowed, Jeanne  said  almost  involuntarily:  "WTiat  a  fine 
man  that  giant  is!"  Julien,  who  was  driving,  replied: 
"Yes,  but  he  does  not  always  restrain  himself  before  com- 
pany." 

A  week  later  they  called  on  the  Couteliers,  who  were 
supposed  to  be  the  chief  noble  family  in  the  province. 
Their  property  of  Remenil  adjoined  the  large  town  of 
Cany.  The  new  chateau  built  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV. 
was  hidden  in  a  magnificent  park  enclosed  by  walls.  The 
ruins  of  the  old  chateau  could  be  seen  on  an  eminence. 
They  were  ushered  into  a  stately  reception  room  by  men 
servants  in  livery.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  a  sort  of 
column  held  an  immense  bowl  of  Sevres  ware  and  on  the 
pedestal  of  the  column  an  autograph  letter  from  the  king, 
under  glass,  requested  the  Marquis  Leopold-Herve-Joseph- 
Germer  de  Vameville  de  Rollebosc  de  Coutelier  to  receive 
this  present  from  his  sovereign. 

Jeanne  and  Julien  were  looking  at  this  royal  gift  when 
the  marquis  and  marquise  entered  the  room. 

They  were  very  ceremonious  people  whose  minds,  senti- 
ments and  words  seemed  always  to  be  on  stilts.     They 


io6  UNE  VIE 

spoke  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  smiling  complacently, 
appearing  always  to  be  fulfilling  th'e  duty  imposed  on  them 
by  their  position,  of  sihowing  civilities  to  the  inferior  no- 
bility of  the  region. 

Jeanne  and  Julien,  somewhat  taken  aback,  endeavored 
to  be  agreeable,  but  although  they  felt  too  embarrassed  to 
remain  any  longer,  they  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  take 
their  leave.  The  marquise  herself  put  an  end  to  the  visit 
naturally  and  simply  by  bringing  the  conversation  to  a 
close  like  a  queen  giving  a  dismissal. 

On  the  way  home  Julien  said:  "If  you  like,  we  will 
make  this  our  first  and  last  call;  the  Fourvilles  are  good 
enough  for  me."  Jeanne  was  of  the  same  opinion.  De- 
cember passed  slowly  and  the  shut-in  life  began  again  as 
in  the  previous  year.  But  Jeanne  did  not  find  it  weari- 
some, as  she  was  always  taken  up  with  Paul,  whom  Julien 
looked  at  askance,  uneasy  and  annoyed.  Often  when  the 
mother  held  the  child  in  her  arms,  kissing  it  frantically  as 
women  do  their  children,  she  would  hold  it  up  to  its  father, 
saying:  "Give  him  a  kiss;  one  would  suppose  you  did  not 
love  him."  He  would  hardly  touch  with  his  lips  the  child's 
smooth  forehead,  walking  all  round  it,  as  though  he  did 
not  wish  to  touch  the  restless  little  fists.  Then  he  would 
walk  away  abruptly  as  though  from  something  dis- 
tasteful. 

The  mayor,  the  doctor  and  the  cure  came  to  dinner 
occasionally,  and  sometimes  it  was  the  Fourvilles,  with 
whom  they  were  becoming  more  and  more  intimate.  The 
comte  appeared  to  worship  Paul.  He  held  him  on  his 
knees  during  the  whole  visit  and  sometimes  during  the 
whole  afternoon,  playing  with  him  and  amusing  him  and 
then  kissing  him  tenderly  as  mothers  do.  He  always  la- 
mented that  he  had  no  children  of  his  own. 

Comtesse  Gilberte  again  mentioned  the  rides  they  all 
four  were  going  to  take  together.  Jeanne,  a  little  weary 
of  the  monotonous  days  and  nights,  was  quite  happy  in 


UNE  VIE  107 

antidpation  of  these  plans,  and  for  a  week  amused  herself 
making  a  riding  habit. 

They  always  set  out  two  and  two,  the  comtesse  and 
Julien  ahead,  the  count  and  Jeanne  a  hundred  feet  behind 
them,  talking  quietly,  like  good  friends,  for  such  they  had 
become  through  the  sympathy  of  their  straightforward 
minds  and  simple  hearts.  The  others  often  spoke  in  a 
low  tone,  sometimes  bursting  into  laughter  and  looking 
quickly  at  each  other,  as  though  their  eyes  were  expressing 
what  they  dared  not  utter.  And  they  would  suddenly 
set  off  at  a  gallop,  impelled  by  a  desire  to  flee,  to  get  away, 
far  away. 

Then  Gilberte  would  seem  to  be  growing  irritable.  Her 
sharp  voice,  borne  on  the  breeze,  occasionally  reached  the 
ears  of  the  loitering  couple.  The  comte  would  smile  and 
say  to  Jeanne:  "She  does  not  always  get  out  of  bed  the 
right  side,  that  wife  of  mine." 

One  evening  as  they  were  coming  home  the  comtesse 
was  teasing  her  mount,  spurring  it  and  then  checking  it 
abruptly.  They  heard  Julien  say  several  times:  "Take 
care,  take  care;  you  will  be  thrown."  "So  much  the 
worse,"  she  replied;  "it  is  none  of  your  business,"  in  a 
hard  clear  tone  that  resounded  across  the  fields  as  though 
the  words  hung  in  the  air. 

The  animal  reared,  plunged  and  champed  the  bit.  The 
comte,  uneasy,  shouted:  "Be  careful,  Gilberte!"  Then, 
as  if  in  defiance,  \Aith  one  of  those  impulses  of  a  woman 
whom  nothing  can  stop,  she  struck  her  horse  brutally 
between  the  ears.  The  animal  reared  in  anger,  pawed  the 
air  with  his  front  feet  and,  landing  again  on  his  feet, 
gave  a  bound  and  darted  across  the  plain  at  full  speed. 

First  it  crossed  the  meadow,  then  plunging  into  a 
ploughed  field  kicked  up  the  damp  rich  earth  behind  it, 
going  so  fast  that  one  could  hardly  distinguish  its  rider. 
Julien  remained  transfixed  with  astonishment,  calling  out 
in  despair:     "Madame,  madame!"  but  the  comte  was 


io8  UNE  VIE 

rather  annoyed,  and,  bending  forward  on  his  heavy 
mount,  he  urged  it  forward  and  sta'rted  out  at  such  a  pace, 
spurring  it  on  with  his  voice,  his  gestures  and  the  spur, 
that  the  huge  horseman  seemed  to  be  carrying  the  heavy 
beast  between  his  legs  and  to  be  Hfting  it  up  as  if  to  fly. 
They  went  at  incredible  speed,  straight  ahead,  and 
Jeanne  saw  the  outline  of  the  wife  and  of  the  husband 
fleeing  getting  smaller  and  disappearing  in  the  distance,  as 
if  they  were  two  birds  pursuing  each  other  to  the  verge  of 
the  horizon. 

Julien,  approaching  Jeanne  slowly,  murmured  angrily: 
"I  think  she  is  crazy  to-day."  And  they  set  out  together 
to  follow  their  friends,  who  were  now  hidden  by  the  rising 
ground. 

At  the  end  of  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  saw  them 
returning  and  presently  joined  them.  The  comte,  per- 
spiring, his  face  red,  but  smiling,  happy  and  triumphant, 
was  holding  his  wife's  trembling  horse  in  his  iron  grasp. 
Gilberte  was  pale,  her  face  sad  and  drawn,  and  she  was 
leaning  one  hand  on  her  husband's  shoulder  as  if  she 
were  going  to  faint.  Jeanne  understood  now  that  the 
comte  loved  her  madly. 

After  this  the  comtesse  for  some  months  seemed  hap- 
pier than  she  had  ever  been.  She  came  to  the  "Poplars" 
more  frequently,  laughed -continually  and  kissed  Jeanne 
impulsively.  One  might  have  said  that  some  mysterious 
charm  had  come  into  her  life.  Her  husband  was  also 
quite  happy  and  never  took  his  eyes  off  her.  He  said 
to  Jeanne  one  evening:  "We  are  very  happy  just  now. 
Gilberte  has  never  been  so  nice  as  this.  She  never  is  out 
of  humor,  never  gets  angry.  I  feel  that  she  loves  me; 
until  now  I  was  not  sure  of  it." 

Julien  also  seemed  changed,  no  longer  impatient,  as 
though  the  friendship  between  the  two  families  had 
brought  peace  and  happiness  to  both.  The  spring  was 
singularly   early   and   mild.      Everything   seemed   to    be 


UNE  VIE  109 

coming  to  life  beneath  the  quickening  rays  of  the  sun. 
Jeanne  was  vaguely  troubled  at  this  awakening  of  nature. 
Memories  came  to  her  of  the  early  days  of  her  love.  Not 
that  her  love  for  Tulien  was  renewed;  that  was  over,  over 
forever.  But  all  her  being,  caressed  by  the  breeze,  filled 
with  the  fragrance  of  ^pring,  was  disturbed  as  though  in 
response  to  some  invisible  and  tender  appeal.  She  loved 
to  be  alone,  to  give  herself  up  in  the  sunlight  to  all  kinds 
of  vague  and  calm  enjoyment  which  did  not  necessitate 
thinking. 

One  morning  as  she  was  in  a  reverie  a  vision  came  to 
her,  a  swift  vision  of  the  sunlit  nook  amid  the  dark  foliage 
in  the  little  wood  near  Etretat.  It  was  there  that  she 
had  for  the  first  timj  trembled,  when  beside  the  young 
man  who  loved  her  then.  It  was  there  that  he  had  uttered 
for  the  first  time  the  timid  desire  of  his  heart.  It  was 
there  that  she  thought  that  she  had  all  at  once  reached  the 
radiant  future  of  her  hopes.  She  wished  to  see  this  wood 
again,  to  make  a  sort  of  sentimental  and  superstitious  pil- 
grimage, as  though  a  return  to  this  spot  might  somehow 
change  the  current  of  her  life.  Julien  had  been  gone  since 
daybreak,  she  knew  not  whither.  She  had  the  little  Vv^hite 
horse,  which  she  sometimes  rode,  saddled,  and  she  set  out. 
It  was  one  of  those  days  when  nothing  seemed  stirring,  not 
a  blade  of  grass,  not  a  leaf.  All  seemed  wrapped  in  a 
golden  mist  beneath  the  blazing  sun.  Jeanne  vralked  her 
horse,  soothed  and  happy. 

She  descended  into  the  valley  which  leads  to  the  sea, 
between  the  great  arches  in  the  cliff  that  are  called  the 
"Gates"  of  iEtretat,  and  slowly  reached  the  wood.  The 
sunlight  was  streaming  through  the  still  scanty  foliage. 
She  wandered  about  the  little  paths,  looking  for  the  spot. 

All  at  once,  as  she  was  going  along  one  of  the  lower 
paths,  she  perceived  at  the  farther  end  of  it  tw^o  horses 
tied  to  ^  iree  and  recognized  them  at  once;  they  belonged 
:o  Gilbertt.  and  Julien,     The  loneliness  of  the  place  was 


no  UNE  VIE 

beginning  to  be  irksome  to  her,  and  she  was  pleased  at 
this  chance  meeting,  and  whipped  up  her  horse. 

When  she  reached  the  two  patient  animals,  who  were 
probably  accustomed  to  these  long  halts,  ^he  called. 
There  was  no  reply.  A  woman's  glove  and  two  riding 
wL.ns  lay  on  the  beaten-do\^Ti  grass.  So  they  had  no 
doubt  sat  down  there  awhile  and  then  walked  away  leaving 
their  horses  tied. 

She  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  twenty  minutes,  sur- 

scd,  not  understanding  what  could  be  keeping  them. 
Sne  had  dism.ounted.  She  sat  there,  leaning  against  a 
tree  trunk.  Suddenly  a  thought  came  to  her  as  she 
glanced  again  at  the  glove,  the  whips  and  ihe  two  horses 
left  tied  there,  and  she  sprang  to  her  saddle  with  an 
irresistible  desire  to  make  her  escape. 

She  started  off  at  a  gallop  for  the  "Poplars."  She  was 
turning  things  over  in  her  mind,  trying  to  reason,  to  put 
two  and  tv/o  together,  to  compare  facts.  How  was  it 
that  she  had  not  suspected  this  sooner?  How  was  't  that 
she  had  not  noticed  anything?  How  was  it  she  nad  not 
guessed  the  reason  of  Julien's  frequent  absences,  ihe  re- 
newal of  his  former  attention  to  his  appearance  and  the 
improvement  in  his  temper?  She  now  recalled  Gilberte's 
nervous  abruptness,  her  exaggerated  affection  and  the 
kind  of  beaming  happiness  in  which  she  seemed  to  exist 
latterly  and  that  so  pleased  the  comte. 

She  reined  in  her  horse,  as  she  wanted  to  ihink,  and  the 
quick  pace  disturbed  her  ideas. 

As  soon  as  the  first  emotion  was  over  she  became  al- 
most calm,  without  jealousy  or  hatred,  but  filled  with 
contempt.  She  hardly  gave  Julien  a  thought;  nothing  he 
might  do  could  astonish  her.  But  ihe  douDle  treachery 
of  the  comtesse,  her  friend,  disgusted  hef  Everyone, 
then,  was  treacherous,  untruthful  and  false.  And  leari 
came  to  her  eyes.  One  sometimes  mourns  lost  illusluns 
as  deeply  as  one  does  the  death  of  a  friend. 


UNE  VIE  III 

She  resolved,  however,  to  act  as  though  she  knew  noth- 
ing, to  close  the  doors  of  her  heart  to  all  ordinary  affection 
and  to  love  no  one  but  Paul  and  her  parents  and  to 
endure  other  people  with  an  undisturbed  countenance. 

As  soon  as  she  got  home  she  ran  to  her  son,  carried 
him  up  to  her  room  and  kissed  him  passionately  for  an 
hour. 

Julien  came  home  to  dinner,  smiling  and  attentive,  and 
appeared  interested  as  he  asked:  "Are  not  father  and 
little  mother  coming  this  year?" 

She  w^as  so  grateful  to  him  for  this  little  attention  that 
she  almost  forgave  him  for  the  discovery  she  had  made 
in  the  wood,  and  she  was  filled  all  of  a  sudden  with  an 
intense  desire  to  see  without  delay  the  two  beings  in  the 
world  whom  she  loved  next  to  Paul,  and  passed  the  whole 
evening  writing  to  them  to  hasten  their  journey. 

They  promised  to  be  there  on  the  20th  of  May  and  it 
was  now  the  7th. 

She  aw^aited  their  arrival  with  a  growing  impatience, 
as  though  she  felt,  in  addition  to  her  filial  affection,  the 
ne^d  of  opening  her  heart  to  honest  hearts,  to  talk  with 
frankness  to  pure-minded  people,  devoid  of  all  infamy, 
all  of  whose  life,  actions  and  thoughts  had  been  upright 
at  all  times. 

What  she  now  felt  was  a  sort  of  moral  isolation,  amid 
all  this  immorality,  and,  although  she  had  learned  sud- 
denly to  dissimulate,  although  she  received  the  comtesse 
with  outstretched  hand  and  smiling  lips,  she  felt  this . 
consciousness  of  hollo wness,  this  contempt  for  humanity 
increasing  and  enveloping  her,  and  the  petty  gossip  of 
the  district  gave  her  a  still  greater  disgust,  a  still  lower 
opinion  of  her  fellow  creatures. 

The  immoralit)^  of  the  peasants  shocked  her,  and  this 
warm  spring  seemed  to  stir  the  sap  in  human  beings  as 
well  as  in  plants.  Jeanne  did  not  belong  to  the  race  of 
peasants   v/ho   are   dominated  by   their   lower   instincts. 


112  UNE  VIE 

Julien  one  day  awakened  her  aversion  anew  by  telling 
her  a  coarse  story  that  had  been  told  to  him  and  that  he 
considered  very  amusing. 

When  the  travelling  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  and 
the  happy  face  of  the  baron  appeared  at  the  window 
Jeanne  was  stirred  with  so  deep  an  emotion,  such  a  tumul- 
tuous feeling  of  affection  as  she  had  never  before  ex- 
perienced. But  when  she  saw  her  mother  she  was  shocked 
and  almost  fainted.  The  baroness,  in  six  months,  had 
aged  ten  years.  Her  heavy  cheeks  had  grown  flabby 
and  purple,  as  though  the  blood  were  congested ;  her  eyes 
were  dim  and  she  could  no  longer  move  about  unless  sup- 
ported under  each  arm.  Her  breathing  was  difficult  and 
wheeezing  and  affected  those  near  her  with  a  painful 
sensation. 

When  Jeanne  had  taken  them  to  their  room,  she  retired 
to  her  own  in  order  to  have  a  good  cry,  as  she  was  so 
upset.  Then  she  went  to  look  for  her  father,  and  throw- 
ing herself  into  his  arms,  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  still 
full  of  tears:  "Oh,  how  mother  is  changed!  What  is 
the  matter  with  her?  Tell  me,  what  is  the  matter?"  He 
was  much  surprised  and  replied:  "Do  you  think  so? 
What  an  idea!  Why,  no.  I  have  never  been  away  from 
her.  I  assure  you  that  I  do  not  think  she  looks  ill.  She 
always  looks  like  that."  -' 

That  evening  Julien  said  to  his  wife:  "Your  mother 
is  in  a;  pretty  bad  v/ay.  I  think  she  will  not  last  long." 
And  as  Jeanne  burst  out  sobbing,  he  became  annoyed. 
"Come,  I  did  not  say  there  was  no  hope  for  her.  You 
always  exaggerate  everything.  She  is  changed,  that's  all. 
She  is  no  longer  young." 

The  baroness  was  not  able  to  walk  any  distance  and 
only  went  out  for  half  an  hour  each  day  to  take  one 
turn  in  her  avenue  and  then  she  would  sit  on  the  bench. 
And  when  she  felt  unequal  to  walking  to  the  end  of  her 
avenue,  she  would  say:     "Let  us  stop;  my  hypertrophy 


UNE  VIE  113 

is  breaking  my  legs  to-day."  She  hardly  ever  laughed 
now  as  she  did  the  previous  year  at  anything  that  amused 
her,  but  only  smiled.  As  she  could  see  to  read  excellently, 
she  passed  hours  reading  "Corinne"  or  Lamartine's 
"Meditations."  Then  she  would  ask  for  her  drawer  of 
"souvenirs,"  and  emptying  her  cherished  letters  on  her 
lap,  she  would  place  the  drawer  on  a  chair  beside  her  and 
put  back,  one  by  one,  her  "relics,"  after  she  had  slowly 
gone  over  them.  And  when  she  was  alone,  quite  alone, 
she  would  Idss  some  of  them,  as  one  kisses  in  secret  a 
lock  of  hair  of  a  loved  one  passed  away. 

Sometimes  Jeanne,  coming  in  abruptly,  would  find  her 
weeping  and  would  exclaim:  "WTiat  is  the  matter,  little 
mother?"  And  the  baroness,  sighing  deeply,  would 
reply:  "It  is  my  'relics'  that  make  me  cry.  They  stir 
remembrances  that  were  so  delightful  and  that  are  now 
past  forever,  and  one  is  reminded  of  persons  whom  one 
had  forgotten  and  recalls  once  more.  You  seem  to  see 
them,  to  hear  them,  and  it  affects  you  strangely.  You 
will  feel  this  later." 

When  the  baron  happened  to  come  in  at  such  times 
he  would  say  gently:  "Jeanne,  dearie,  take  my  advice 
and  burn  your  letters,  all  of  them — your  mother's,  mine, 
everyone's.  There  is  nothing  more  dreadful,  when  one  is 
growing  old,  than  to  look  back  to  one's  youth."  But 
Jeanne  also  kept  her  letters,  was  preparing  a  chest  of 
"relics"  in  obedience  to  a  sort  of  hereditary  instinct  of 
dreamy  sentimentality,  although  she  differed  from  her 
mother  in  every  other  way. 

The  baron  was  obliged  to  leave  them  some  days  later, 
as  he  had  some  business  tliat  called  him  away. 

One  afternoon  Jeanne  took  Paul  in  her  arms  and  went 
out  for  a  walk.  She  was  sitting  on  a  bank^  gazing  at  the 
infant,  whom  she  seemed  to  be  looking  at  for  the  first 
time.  She  could  hardly  imagine  him  grovm  up,  walk- 
ing with  a  steady  step,  with  a  beard  on  his  face  and 


C 


114  UNE  VIE 

talking  in  a  big  voice.  She  heard  someone  calling  and 
raised  her  head.     Marius  came  running  toward  her. 

"Madame,  Madame  la  Baronne  is  very  bad!" 

A  cold  chill  seemed  to  run  down  her  back  as  she  started 
up  and  walked  hurriedly  toward  the  house. 

As  she  approached  she  saw  a  number  of  persons 
grouped  around  the  plane  tree.  She  darted  forward  and 
saw  her  mother  lying  on  the  ground  with  two  pillows 
under  her  head.  Her  face  was  black,  her  eyes  closed  and 
her  breathing,  which  had  been  difficult  for  twenty  years, 
now  quite  hushed.  The  nurse  took  the  child  out  of 
Jeanne's  arms  and  carried  it  off. 

Jeanne,  with  dra\vn,  anxious  face,  asked:  "What  hap- 
pened? How  did  she  come  to  fall?  Go  for  the  doctor, 
somebody."  Turning  round,  she  saw  the  old  cure,  who 
had  heard  of  it  in  some  way.  He  offered  his  services 
and  began  rolling  up  the  sleeves  of  his  cassock.  But 
vinegar,  eau  de  cologne  and  rubbing  the  invalid  proved 
ineffectual. 

"She  should  be  undressed  and  put  to  bed,"  said  the 
priest. 

Joseph  Couillard,  the  farmer,  was  there  and  old  Simon 
and  Ludivine.  With  the  assistance  of  Abbe  Picot,  they 
tried  to  lift  the  baroness,  but  after  an  attempt  were 
obliged  to  bring  a  large^  easy  chair  from  the  drawing- 
room  and  place  her  in  it!  In  this  way,  they  managed  to 
get  her  into  the  house  and  then  upstairs,  where  they 
laid  her  on  her  bed. 

Joseph  Couillard  set  out  in  hot  haste  for  the  doctor. 
As  the  priest  was  going  to  get  the  holy  oil,  the  nurse, 
who  had  "scented  a  death,"  as  the  servants  say,  and 
was  on  the  spot,  whispered  to  him:  "Do  not  prt  your- 
self out,  monsieur;  she  is  dead.  I  know  all  about  these 
things." 

Jeanne,  beside  herself,  entreated  them  to  do  something. 
The  priest  tliought  it  best  to  pronounce  the  absolution. 


UNE  VIE  115 

They  watched  for  two  hours  beside  this  lifeless,  dis- 
colored body.  Jeanne,  on  her  knees,  was  sobbing  in  an 
agony  of  grief. 

When  the  door  opened  and  the  doctor  appeared,  Jeanne 
darted  toward  him.  stammering  out  what  she  knew  of 
the  accident,  but  seeing  the  nurse  exchange  a  meaning 
glance  with  the  doctor,  she  stopped  to  ask  him:  "Is  it 
serious?     Do  you  think  it  is  serious?" 

He  said  presently:  "I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid — it  is 
all  over.     Be  brave,  be  brave." 

Jeanne,  extending  her  arms,  threw  herself  on  her 
mother's  body.  Julien  just  then  came  in.  He  stood  there 
amazed,  visibly  annoyed,  without  any  exclamation  of 
sorrow,  any  appearance  of  grief,  taken  so  unawares  that 
he  had  not  time  to  prepare  a  suitable  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. He  muttered:  "I  was  expecting  it,  I  felt  that 
the  end  was  near."  Then  he  took  out  his  handkerchief, 
wiped  his  eyes,  knelt  down,  crossed  himself,  and  then  ris- 
ing to  his  feet,  attempted  to  raise  his  wife.  But  she  was 
clasping  the  dead  body  and  kissing  it,  and  it  became 
necessary  to  carry  her  away.  She  appeared  to  be  out  of 
her  mind. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  she  was  allowed  to  come  back. 
There  was  no  longer  any  hope.  The  room  was  arranged 
as  a  death  chamber.  Julien  and  the  priest  were  talking 
in  a  low  tone  near  the  window.  It  was  growing  dark. 
The  priest  cam.e  over  to  Jeanne  and  took  her  hands, 
trying  10  console  her.  He  spoke  of  the  defunct,  praised 
her  in  pious  phrases  and  offered  to  pass  the  night  in 
prayer  beside  the  body. 

But  Jeanne  refused,  amid  convulsive  sobs.  She  wished 
to  be  alone,  quite  alone  on  this  last  night  of  farewell. 
Julien  came  forward:  "But  you  must  not  do  it;  we  will 
stay  together."  She  shook  her  head,  unable  to  speak. 
At  last  she  said:  "It  is  my  mother,  my  mother.  I  wish 
to   watch   beside  her   alone."     The   doctor   murmured: 


ii6  UNE  VIE 

"Let  her  do  as  she  pleases;  the  nurse  can  stay  in  the 
adjoining  room." 

The  priest  and  Julien  consented,  more  interested  in 
their  own  rest.  Then  Abbe  Picot  knelt  down  in  his 
turn,  and  as  he  rose  and  left  the  room,  he  said:  "She 
was  a  saint''  in  the  same  tone  as  he  said  "Dominus 
vobiscum." 

The  vicomte  in  his  ordinary  tone  then  asked:  "Are 
you  not  going  to  eat  something?"  Jeanne  did  not  reply, 
not  knowing  he  was  speaking  to  her,  and  he  repeated: 
"You  had  better  eat  something  to  keep  up  your  stomach." 
She  replied  in  a  bewildered  manner:  "Send  at  once  for 
papa."  And  he  went  out  of  the  room  to  send  someone  on 
horseback  to  Rouen. 

She  rema-ned  plunged  in  a  sort  of  motionless  grief, 
seeing  nothing,  feeling  nothing,  understanding  nothing. 
She  onl}^  wanted  to  be  alone.  Julien  came  back.  He  had 
dined  and  he  asked  her  again:  "Won't  you  take  some- 
thing?" She  shook  her  head.  He  sat  down  with  an  air 
of  resignation  rather  than  sadness,  without  speaking, 
and  they  both  sat  there  silent,  till  at  length  Julien  arose, 
and  approaching  Jeanne,  said:  "Would  you  like  to  stay 
alone  now?"  She  took  his  hand  impulsively  and  replied: 
"Oh,  yes!  leave  me!" 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  murmuring:  "I  will  come  in 
and  see  you  from  time  to  time."  He  went  out  with 
Widow  Dentu,  who  rolled  her  easy  chair  into  the  next 
room. 

Jeanne  shut  the  door  and  opened  the  windows  wide. 
She  felt  the  soft  breath  from  the  mown  hay  that  lay  in 
the  moonlight  on  the  lawn.  It  seemed  to  harrow  her 
feelings  like  an  ironical  remark. 

She  went  back  to  the  bed,  took  one  of  the  cold,  inert 
hands  and  looked  at  her  mother  earnestly.  She  seemed 
to  be  sleeping  more  peacefully  than  she  had  ever  done, 
and  the  pale  flame  of  the  tapers  which  flickered  at  every 


UNE  VIE  117 

breath  made  her  face  appear  to  be  alive,  as  if  she  had 
stirred.  Jeanne  remembered  all  the  little  incidents  of 
her  childhood,  the  visits  of  little  mother  to  the  "parloir" 
of  the  convent,  the  manner  in  which  she  handed  her  a 
little  paper  bag  of  cakes,  a  multitude  of  little  details, 
little  acts,  little  caresses,  words,  intonations,  familiar  ges- 
tures, the  creases  at  the  corner  of  her  eyes  when  she 
laughed,  the  big  sigh  she  gave  when  she  sat  down. 

And  she  stood  there  looking  at  her,  repeating  half  me- 
chanically. "She  is  dead,"  and  all  the  horror  of  the 
word  became  real  to  her.  It  was  mamma  lying  there — 
little  mother — Mamma  Adelaide  who  was  dead.  She 
would  never  move  about  again,  nor  speak,  nor  laugh,  nor 
sit  at  dinner  opposite  little  father.  She  would  never 
again  say:  "Good-mornl-^^  Jeannette."     She  was  dead! 

And  she  fell  on  her  knees  in  a  paroxysm  of  despair, 
her  hands  clutching  the  sheet,  her  face  buried  in  the 
covers  as  she  cried  in  a  heartrending  tone:  "Oh,  mamma, 
my  poor  mamma!"  Then  feeling  that  she  was  losing 
her  reason  as  she  had  done  on  the  night  when  she  fled 
across  the  snow,  she  rose  and  ran  to  the  window  to  drink 
in  the  fresh  air.  The  soothing  calmness  of  the  night 
entered  her  soul  and  she  began  to  weep  quietly. 

Presently  she  turned  back  into  the  room  and  sat  down 
again  beside  her  mother.  Other  remembrances  came  to 
her:  those  of  her  own  life — Rosalie,  Gilberte,  the  bitter 
disillusions  of  her  heart.  Everything,  then,  was  only  mis- 
ery, grief,  unhappiness  and  death.  Everyone  tried  to 
deceive,  everyone  lied,  everyone  made  you  suffer  and  weep. 
Where  could  one  find  a  Httle  rest  and  happiness?  In 
another  existence  no  doubt,  when  the  soul  is  freed  from 
the  trials  of  earth.  And  she  began  to  ponder  on  this  in- 
soluble mystery. 

A  tender  and  curious  thought  came  to  her  mind.  If 
was  to  read  over  in  this  last  watch,  as  though  they  were 
a  litany,  the  old  letters  that  her  mother  loved.    It  seemed 


ii8  UNE  VIE 

to  her  that  she  was  about  to  perform  a  delicate  and 
sacred  duty  which  would  give  pleasure  to  little  mother  in 
the  other  world. 

She  rose,  opened  the  writing  desk  and  took  from  the 
lower  drawer  ten  little  packages  of  yellow  letters,  tied 
and  arranged  in  order,  side  by  side.  She  placed  them  all 
on  the  bed  over  her  mother's  heart  from  a  sort  of  senti- 
ment and  began  to  read  them.  They  were  old  letters 
that  savored  of  a  former  century.  The  first  began,  "My 
dear  little  granddaughter,"  then  again  "My  dear  little 
girl,"  "My  darling,"  "My  dearest  daughter,"  then  "My^ 
dear  child,"  "My  dear  Adelaide,"  "My  dear  daughter," 
according  to  the  periods — childhood,  youth  or  young 
womanhood.  They  were  all  full  of  little  insignificant 
details  and  tender  words,  about  a  thousand  little  matters, 
those  simple  but  important  events  of  home  life,  so  petty 
to  outsiders:  "Father  has  the  grip;  poor  Hortense  burnt 
her  finger;  the  cat,  'Croquerat,'  is  dead;  they  have  cut 
down  the  pine  tree  to  the  right  of  the  gate;  mother  lost 
her  prayerbook  on  the  way  home  from  church,  she  thinks 
it  was  stolen." 

All  these  details  affected  her.  They  seemed  like  reve- 
lations, as  though  she  had  suddenly  entered  the  past 
secret  heart  life  of  little  mother.  She  looked  at  her  lying 
there  and  suddenly  began  to  read  aloud,  to  read  to  the 
dead,  as  though  to  distract,  to  console  her. 

And  the  dead  woman  appeared  to  be  pleased. 

Jeanne  tossed  the  letters  as  she  read  them  to  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  She  untied  another  package.  It  was  a  new 
handwriting.  She  read:  "I  cannot  do  without  your 
caresses.    I  love  you  so  that  I  am  almost  crazy." 

That  was  all;  no  signature. 

She  put  back  the  letter  without  understanding  its 
meaning.  The  address  was  certainly  "Madame  la  Baronne 
Le  Perthuis  des  Vauds." 

Then  she  opened  another:      "Come  this  evening  as 


UNE  VIE  119 

soon  as  he  goes  out;  we  shall  have  an  hour  together.  I 
worship  you."  In  another:  "I  passed  the  night  longing 
in  vain  for  you,  longing  to  look  into  your  eyes,  to  press 
my  lips  to  yours,  and  I  am  insane  enough  to  throw 
myself  from  the  window  at  the  thought  that  you  are 
another's  ..." 

Jeanne  was  perfectly  bewildered.  What  did  that 
mean?  To  whom,  for  whom,  from  whom  were  these 
words  of  love? 

She  went  on  reading,  coming  across  fresh  impassioned 
declarations,  appointments  with  warnings  as  to  prudence, 
and  always  at  the  end  the  six  words:  "Be  sure  to  bum 
this  letter!" 

At  last  she  opened  an  ordinary  note,  accepting  an 
invitation  to  dinner,  but  in  the  same  handwriting  and 
signed:  "Paul  d'Ennemare,"  whom  the  baron  called, 
w.henever  he  spoke  of  him,  "My  poor  old  Paul,"  and 
whose  wife  had  been  the  baroness'  dearest  friend. 

Then  a  suspicion,  which  immediately  became  a  cer- 
tainty, flashed  across  Jeanne's  mind:  He  had  been  her 
mother's  lover. 

And,  almost  beside  herself,  she  suddenly  threw  aside 
these  infamous  letters  as  she  would  have  thrown  off  some 
venomous  reptile  and  ran  to  the  window  and  began  to 
cry  piteously.  Then,  collapsing,  she  sank  down  beside 
the  wall,  and  hiding  her  face  in  the  curtain  so  that  no 
one  should  hear  her,  she  sobbed  bitterly  as  if  in  hopeless 
despair. 

She  W'Ould  have  remained  thus  probably  all  night,  if 
she  had  not  heard  a  noise  in  the  adjoining  room  that 
made  her  start  to  her  feet.  It  might  be  her  father. 
And  all  the  letters  were  lying  on  the  floor  I  He  would 
have  to  open  only  one  of  them  to  know^  all!     Her  father! 

She  darted  into  the  other  room  and  seizing  the  letters 
in  handful s,  she  threw  them  all  into  the  flreplace,  those 
of  her  grandparents  as  well  as  those  of  the  lover;  some 


120  UNE  VIE 

that  she  had  not  looked  at  and  some  that  had  remained 
tied  up  in  the  drawers  of  the  desk'.  She  then  took  one 
of  the  tapers  that  burned  beside  the  bed  and  set  fire  to 
this  pile  of  letters.  When  they  were  reduced  to  ashes  she 
went  back  to  the  open  window,  as  though  she  no  longer 
dared  to  sit  beside  the  dead,  and  began  to  cry  again 
with  her  face  in  her  hands:  "Oh,  my  poor  mamma!  oh, 
my  poor  mamma!" 

The  stars  were  paling.  It  v/as  the  cool  hour  that  pre- 
cedes the  dawn.  The  moon  was  sinking  on  the  horizon 
and  turning  the  sea  to  mother  of  pearl.  The  recollection 
of  the  night  she  passed  at  the  window  when  she  first 
came  to  the  "Poplars"  came  to  Jeanne's  mind.  How 
far  away  it  seemed,  how  everything  was  changed,  how 
different  the  future  now  seemed! 

The  sky  was  becoming  pink,  a  joyous,  love-inspiring, 
enchanting  pink.  She  looked  at  it  in  surprise,  as  at  some 
phenomenon,  this  radiant  break  of  day,  and  asked  her- 
self if  it  were  possible  that,  on  a  planet  where  such 
dawns  were  found,  there  should  be  neither  joy  nor  hap- 
piness. 

A  noise  at  the  door  made  her  start.  It  was  Julien. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "are  you  not  very  tired?" 

She  murmured,  "No,"  happy  at  being  no  longer  alone. 
"Go  and  rest  now,"  he  said.  She  kissed  her  mother  a 
long,  sad  kiss;  then  she  went  to  her  room. 

The  next  day  passed  in  the  usual  attentions  to  the  dead. 
The  baron  arrived  toward  evening.  He  wept  for  some 
time. 

The  funeral  took  place  the  following  day.  After  press- 
ing a  last  kiss  on  her  mother's  icy  forehead  and  seeing 
the  coffin  nailed  down,  Jeanne  left  the  room.  The  in- 
vited guests  would  soon  arrive. 

Gilberte  was  the  first  to  come,  and  she  threw  herself 
sobbing  on  her  friend's  shoulder.  Women  in  black  pres- 
ently entered  the  room  one  after  another,  people  whom 


UNE  VIE  121 

Jeanne  did  not  know.  The  Marquise  de  Coutelier  and 
the  Vicomtesse  de  Briseville  embraced  her.  She  suddenly 
saw  Aunt  Lison  gliding  in  behind  her.  She  turned  round 
and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

Julien  came  in,  dressed  all  in  black,  elegant,  very  im- 
portant, pleased  at  seeing  so  many  people.  He  asked 
his  wife  some  question  in  a  low  tone  and  added  confiden- 
itally:  "All  the  nobility  are  here;  it  will  be  a  fine  affair." 
And  he  walked  away,  gravely  bowing  to  the  ladies.  Aunt 
Lison  and  Comtesse  Gilberte  alone  remained  with  Jeanne 
during  the  service  for  the  dead.  The  comtesse  kissed 
her  repeatedly,  exclaiming:  "My  poor  dear,  my  poor 
dear!" 

When  Comte  de  Fourville  came  to  fetch  his  wife  he 
was  also  crying  as  though  it  w^re  for  his  own  mother. 


CHAPTER  X 


RETRIBUTION 


The  following  days  were  very  sad  and  dreary,  as  they 
always  are  when  there  has  been  a  death  in  the  house. 
And,  in  addition,  Jeanne  was  crushed  at  the  thought  of 
what  she  had  discovered ;  her  last  shred  of  confidence  had 
been  destroyed  with  the  destruction  of  her  faith.  Little 
father,  after  a  short  stay,  went  away  to  try  and  distract 
his  thoughts  from  his  grief,  and  the  large  house,  whose 
former  masters  were  leaving  it  from  time  to  time,  resumed 
its  usual  calm  and  monotonous  course. 

Then  Paul  fell  ill,  and  Jeanne  was  almost  beside  her- 
self, not  sleeping  for  ten  days,  and  scarcely  tasting  food. 
He  recovered,  but  she  was  haunted  by  the  idea  that  he 
might  die.  Then  what  should  she  do?  What  would 
become  of  her?  And  there  gradually  stole  into  her  heart 
the  hope  that  she  might  have  another  child.  She 
dreamed  of  it,  became  obsessed  with  the  idea.  She  longed 
to  realize  her  old  dream  of  seeing  two  little  children 
around  her;  a  boy  and  a  girl. 

But  since  the  affair  of  Rosalie  she  and  Julien  had  lived 
apart.  A  reconciliation  seemed  impossible  in  their  pres- 
ent situation.  Julien  loved  some  one  else,  she  knew  it; 
and  the  very  thought  of  suffering  his  approach  filled  her 
with  repugnance.  She  had  no  one  left  whom  she  could 
consult.     She  resolved  to  go  and  see  Abbe  Picot  and  tell 

122 


UNE  VIE  123 

him,  under  the  seal  of  confession,  all  that  weighed  upon 
her  mind  in  this  matter. 

He  was  reading  from  his  breviary  in  his  little  garden 
planted  with  fruit  trees  when  she  arrived. 

After  a  few  mnutes'  conversation  on  indifferent  mat- 
ters, she  faltered,  her  color  rising:  "I  want  to  confess, 
Monsieur  I'Abbe." 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  as  he  pushed  his 
spectacles  back  on  his  forehead;  then  he  began  to  laugh. 
"You  surely  have  no  great  sins  on  your  conscience." 
This  embarrassed  her  greatly,  and  she  replied:  "Xo,  but 
I  want  to  ask  your  advice  on  a  subject  that  is  so — so — so 
painful  that  I  dare  not  mention  it  casually." 

He  at  once  laid  aside  his  jovial  manner  and  assumed 
his  priestly  attitude.  "Well,  my  child,  I  will  listen  to 
you  in  the  confessional;  come  along." 

But  she  held  back,  undecided,  restrained  by  a  kind  of 
scruple  at  speaking  of  these  matters,  of  which  she  was  half 
ashamed,  in  the  seclusion  of  an  empty  church., 

"Or  else,  no — Monsieur  le  Cure — I  might — I  might — 
if  you  wish,  tell  you  now  what  brings  me  here.  Let  us 
go  and  sit  over  there,  in  your  little  arbor." 

They  walked  toward  it,  and  Jeanne  tried  to  think  how 
she  could  begin.    They  sat  down  in  the  arbor,  and  then, 

as  if  she  were  confessing  herself,  she  said:     "Father " 

then  hesitated,   and   repeated:      "Father "   and   was 

silent  from  emotion. 

He  waited,  his  hands  crossed  over  his  paunch.  Seeing 
her  embarrassment,  he  sought  to  encourage  her:  "Why, 
my  daughter,  one  would  suppose  you  were  afraid;  come, 
take  cnura<ie." 

She  plucked  up  courage,  like  a  coward  who  plunsjes 
headlong  into  danger.  "Father,  I  should  like  to  have 
another  child."  He  did  not  reply,  as  he  did  not  under- 
stand her.  Then  she  explained,  timid  and  unable  to 
express  herself  clearly: 


124  UNE  VIE 

"I  am  all  alone  in  life  now;  my  father  and  my  hus- 
band do  not  get  along  together;  my  mother  is  dead;  and 

— and "  she  added  with  a  shudder,  "the  other  day  I 

nearly  lost  my  son!  What  would  have  become  of  me 
then?" 

She  was  silent.  The  priest,  bewildered,  was  gazing  at 
her.    ''Come,  get  to  the  point  of  your  subject." 

"I  want  to  have  another  child,"  she  said.  Then  he 
smiled,  accustomed  to  the  coarse  jokes  of  the  peasants, 
who  were  not  embarrassed  in  his  presence,  and  he  re- 
plied, with  a  sly  motion  of  his  head: 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  it  depends  only  on  your- 
self." 

She  raised  her  candid  eyes  to  his  face,  and  said,  hesi- 
tating with  confusion:  "But — but — you  understand  that 
since — since — what  you  know  about — about  that  maid— 
my  husband  and  I  have  lived — have  lived  quite  apart." 

Accustomed  to  the  promiscuity  and  undignified  rela- 
tions of  the  peasants,  he  was  astonished  at  the  revelation. 
All  at  once  he  thought  he  guessed  at  the  young  woman's 
real  desire,  and  looking  at  her  out  of  the  comer  of  his 
eye,  Avith  a  heart  full  of  benevolence  and  sympathy  for 
her  distress,  he  said:  "Oh,  I  understand  perfectly.  I 
know  that  your  widowhood  must  be  irksome  to  you. 
You  are  young  and  in  good  health.  It  is  natural,  quite 
natural." 

He  smiled,  bearing  out  his  easy-going  character  of  a 
country  priest,  and  tapping  Jeanne  lightly  on  the  hand, 
he  said:  "That  is  permissible,  very  permissible  indeed, 
according  to  the  commandments.  You  are  married,  are 
you  not?     Well,  then,  what  is  the  harm?" 

She,  in  her  turn,  had  not  understood  his  hidden  mean- 
ing; but  as  soon  as  she  saw  through  it,  she  blushed 
scarlet,  shocked,  and  with  tears  in  her  ej^es  exclaimed: 
"Oh,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  what  are  you  saying?     What 


UNE  VIE  125 

are  you  thinking  of?  I  swear  to  you — I  swear  to 
you "    And  sobs  choked  her  words. 

He  was  surprised  and  sought  to  console  her:  "Come, 
I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  I  was  only  ioking 
a  little;  there  is  no  harm  in  that  whefl  one  is  decent. 
But  you  may  rely  on  me,  you  may  rely  on  me.  I  will 
see  M.  Julien." 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say.  She  now  wished  to 
decline  this  intervention,  which  she  thought  clumsy  and 
dangerous,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  do  so,  and  she  went 
away  hurriedly,  faltering:  "I  am  grateful  to  you,  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure." 

A  week  passed.  One  day  at  dinner  Julien  looked  at 
her  with  a  peculiar  expression,  a  certain  smiling  curve  of 
the  lips  that  she  had  noticed  when  he  was  teasing  her. 
He  w^as  even  almost  ironically  gallant  toward  her,  and 
,as  they  w^ere  walking  after  dinner  in  little  mother's  ave- 
nue, he  said  in  a  low  tone:  "We  seem  to  have  made  up 
again." 

She  did  not  reply,  but  continued  to  look  on  the  ground 
at  a  sort  of  track  that  was  almost  effaced  now  that  the 
grass  was  sprouting  anew.  They  were  the  footprints  of 
the  baroness,  which  were  vanishing  as  does  a  memory. 
And  Jeanne  was  plunged  in  sadness;  she  felt  herself  lost 
in  life,  far  away  from  everyone. 

"As  for  me,  I  ask  nothing  better.  I  was  afraid  of 
displeasing  you,"  continued  Julien. 

The  sun  was  going  do^vn,  the  air  w^as  mild.  A  longing 
to  weep  came  over  Jeanne,  one  of  those  needs  of  un- 
bosoming oneself  to  a  kindred  spirit,  of  unbending  and 
telling  one's  griefs.  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat;  she  opened 
her  arms  and  fell  on  Julien 's  breast,  and  wept.  He 
glanced  down  in  surprise  at  her  head,  for  he  could  not 
see  her  face  which  was  hidden  on  his  shoulder.  He 
supposed  that  she  still  loved  him,  and  placed  a  conde- 
scending kiss  on  the  back  of  her  head. 


126  UNE  VIE 

They  entered  the  house  and  he  followed  her  to  her 
room.  And  thus  they  resumed  their  former  relations,  he, 
as  a  not  unpleasant  duty,  and  she,  merely  tolerating  him. 

She  soon  noticed,  however,  that  his  manner  had  changed, 
and  one  day  with  her  lips  to  his,  she  murmured:  "Why 
are  you  not  the  same  as  you  used  to  be?" 

"Because  I  do  not  want  any  more  children,"  he  said 
jokingly. 

She  started.    "Why  not?" 

He  appeared  greatly  surprised.  "Eh,  what's  that  you 
say?  Are  you  crazy?  No,  indeed!  One  is  enough, 
always  crying  and  bothering  everyone.  Another  baby! 
No,  thank  you!" 

At  the  end  of  a  month  she  told  the  news  to  everyone, 
far  and  wide,  with  the  exception  of  Comtesse  Gilberte, 
from  reasons  of  modesty  and  delicacy. 

What  the  priest  had  foreseen  finally  came  to  pass.  She 
became  enceinte.  Then,  filled  with  an  unspeakable  hap- 
piness, she  locked  her  door  every  night  when  she  retired, 
vowing  herself  from  henceforth  to  eternal  chastity,  in 
gratitude  to  the  vague  divinity  she  adored. 

She  was  now  almost  quite  happy  again.  Her  children 
would  grow  up  and  love  her;  she  would  grow  old  quietly, 
happy  and  contented,  without  troubling  herself  about  her 
husband. 

Toward  the  end  of  September,  Abbe  Picot  called  on  a 
visit  of  ceremony  to  introduce  his  successor,  a  young  priest, 
very  thin,  very  short,  with  an  emphatic  way  of  talking, 
and  with  dark  circles  round  his  sunken  eyes. 

The  old  abbe  had  been  appointed  Dean  of  Goderville. 

Jeanne  was  really  sorry  to  lose  the  old  man,  who  had 
been  associated  with  all  her  recollections  as  a  young 
woman.  He  had  married  her,  baptized  Paul,  and  buried 
the  baroness.  She  could  not  imagine  Etouvent  ^'vithout 
Abbe  Picot  and  his  paimch  passing  along  by  the  farms, 
and  she  loved  him  because  he  was  cheerful  and  natural. 


UNE  VIE  127 

But  he  did  not  seem  very  cheerful  at  the  thought  of 
his  promotion.  "It  is  a  wrench,  it  is  a  wrench,  madame 
la  comtesse.  I  have  been  here  for  eighteen  years.  Oh, 
the  place  does  not  bring  in  much,  and  is  not  wealthy. 
The  men  have  no  more  religion  than  they  need,  and  the 
women,  look  you,  the  women  have  no  morals.  But  never- 
theless, I  loved  it." 

The  new  cure  appeared  impatient,  and  said  abruptly: 
"When  I  am  here  all  that  will  have  to  be  changed."  He 
looked  like  an  angry  boy,  thin  and  frail  in  his  somewhat 
worn,  though  clean  cassock. 

Abbe  Picot  looked  at  him  sideways,  as  he  did  when 
he  was  in  a  joking  mood,  and  said:  "You  see,  abbe,  in 
order  to  prevent  those  happenings,  you  will  have  to  chain 
up  your  parishioners;  and  even  that  would  not  be  of 
much  use."  The  little  priest  replied  sharply:  "We  shall 
see."  And  the  older  man  smiled  as  he  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  said:  "Age  will  calm  you  down,  abbe,  and 
experience  also.  You  will  drive  away  from  the  church 
the  remaining  faithful  ones,  and  that  is  all  the  good  it 
will  do.  In  this  district  they  are  religious,  but  pig-headed; 
be  careful.  Faith,  when  I  see  a  girl  come  to  confess  who 
looks  rather  stout,  I  say  to  myself:  'She  is  brindng  me 
a  new  parishioner,'  and  I  try  to  get  her  married.  You 
cannot  prevent  them  from  making  mistakes;  but  you 
can  go  and  look  for  the  man,  and  prevent  him  from 
deserting  the  mother.  Get  them  married,  abbe,  get  them 
married,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  anything  else." 

"We  think  differently,"  said  the  young  priest  rudely; 
"it  is  useless  to  insist."  And  Abbe  Picot  once  more  began 
to  regret  his  village,  the  sea  which  he  saw  from  his  par- 
sonage, the  little  valleys  where  he  walked  while  repeating 
his  breviary,  glancing  up  at  the  boats  as  they  passed. 

As  the  two  priests  took  their  leave,  the  old  man  kissed 
Jeanne,  who  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

A  week  later  Abbe  Tolbiac  called  again.    He  spoke  of 


128  UNE  VIE 

reforms  which  he  intended  to  accomplish,  as  a  prince 
might  have  done  on  taking  possession  of  a  kingdom.  Then 
he  requested  the  vicomtesse  not  to  miss  the  service  on 
Sunday,  and  to  communicate  at  all  the  festivals.  ''You 
and  I,"  he  said,  "we  are  at  the  head  of  the  district;  we 
must  rule  it  and  always  set  them  an  example  to  follow. 
We  must  be  of  one  accord  so  that  we  may  be  powerful 
and  respected.  The  church  and  the  chateau  in  joining 
forces  will  make  the  peasants  obey  and  fear  us." 

Jeanne's  religion  was  all  sentiment;  she  had  all  a 
woman's  dream  faith,  and  if  she  attended  at  all  to  her 
religious  duties,  it  was  from  a  habit  acquired  at  the  con- 
vent, the  baron's  advanced  ideas  having  long  since  over- 
thrown her  convictions.  Abbe  Picot  contented  himself 
with  what  observances  she  gave  him,  and  never  blamed 
her.  But  his  successor,  not  seeing  her  at  mass  the  pre- 
ceding Sunday,  had  come  to  call,  uneasy  and  stem. 

She  did  not  wish  to  break  with  the  parsonage,  and 
promised,  making  up  her  mind  to  be  assiduous  in  attend- 
ance the  first  few  weeks,  out  of  politeness. 

Little  by  little,  however,  she  got  into  the  habit  of  going 
to  church  and  came  under  the  influence  of  this  delicate, 
upright  and  dictatorial  abbe.  A  mystic,  he  appealed  to 
her  in  his  enthusiasm  and  zeal.  He  set  in  vibration  in  her 
soul  the  chord  of  religious  poetry  that  all  women  possess. 
His  unyielding  austerity,  his  disgust  for  ordinary  human 
interests,  his  love  of  God,  his  youthful  and  untutored 
inexperience,  his  harsh  words,  and  his  inflexible  will,  gave 
Jeanne  an  idea  of  the  stuff  martyrs  were  made  of;  -and 
she  let  herself  be  carried  away,  all  disillusioned  as  she 
was,  by  the  fanaticism  of  this  child,  the  minister  of  God. 

He  led  her  to  Christ,  the  consoler,  showing  *her  how 
the  joy  of  religion  will  calm  all  sorrow;  and  she  knelt  at 
the  confessional,  humbling  herself,  feeling  herself  small 
and  weak  in  presence  of  this  priest,  who  appeared  to  be 
about  fifteen. 


UNE  VIE  129 

He  was,  however,  very  soon  detested  in  all  the  country- 
side. Inflexibly  severe  toward  himself,  he  was  implaca- 
bly intolerant  toward  others,  and  the  one  thing  that  espe- 
cially roused  his  wrath  and  indignation  was  love.  The 
young  men  and  girls  looked  at  each  other  slyly  across 
the  church,  and  the  old  peasants  who  liked  to  joke  about 
such  things  disapproved  his  severity.  All  the  parish  was 
in  a  ferment.  Soon  the  young  men  all  stopped  going  to 
church. 

The  cure  dined  at  the  chateau  every  Thursday,  and 
often  came  during  the  week  to  chat  with  his  penitent. 
She  became  enthusiastic  like  himself,  talked  about  spirit- 
ual matters,  handling  all  the  antique  and  complicated 
arsenal  of  religious  controversy. 

They  walked  together  along  the  baroness'  avenue,  talk- 
ing of  Christ  and  the  apostles,  the  Virgin  Mary  and  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church  as  though  they  were  personally 
acquainted  with  them. 

Julien  treated  the  new  priest  with  great  respect,  say- 
ing constantly:  "That  priest  suits  me,  he  does  not  back 
down."  And  he  went  to  confession  and  communion,  set- 
ting a  fine  example.  He  now  went  to  the  Fourvilles' 
nearly  every  day,  gunning  with  the  husband,  who  was 
never  happy  without  him,  and  riding  with  the  com- 
tesse,  in  spite  of  rain  and  storm.  The  comte  said: 
"They  are  crazy  about  riding,  but  it  does  my  wife 
good." 

The  baron  returned  to  the  chateau  about  the  middle 
of  November.  He  was  changed,  aged,  faded,  tilled  with 
a  deep  sadness.  And  his  love  for  his  daughter  seemed 
to  have  gained  in  strength,  as  if  these  few  months  of 
dreary  solitude  had  aggravated  his  need  of  affection,  con- 
fidence and  tenderness.  Jeanne  did  not  tell  him  about 
her  new  ideas,  and  her  friendship  for  the  Abbe  Tolbiac. 
The  first  time  he  saw  the  priest  he  conceived  a  great 
aversion  to  him.    And  when  Jeanne  asked  him  that  eve- 


130  UNE  VIE 

ning  how  he  liked  him,  he  replied:  "That  man  is  an 
inquisitor!     He  must  be  very  dangerous." 

When  he  learned  from  the  peasants,  whose  friend  he 
was,  of  the  harshness  and  violence  of  the  young  priest, 
of  the  kind  of  persecution  which  he  carried  on  against  all 
human  and  natural  instincts,  he  developed  a  hatred 
toward  him.  He,  himself,  was  one  of  the  old  race  of 
natural  philosophers  who  bowed  the  knee  to  a  sort  of 
pantheistic  Divinity,  and  shrank  from  the  Catholic  con- 
ception of  a  God  with  bourgeois  instincts,  Jesuitical  wrath, 
and  tyrannical  revenge.  To  him  reproduction  was  the 
great  law  of  nature,  and  he  began  from  farm  to  farm 
an  ardent  campaign  against  this  intolerant  priest,  the 
persecutor  of  life. 

Jeanne,  very  much  worried,  prayed  to  the  Lord,  en- 
treated her  father;  but  he  always  repT-ied:  "We  must 
fight  such  men  as  that,  it  is  our  duty  and  our  right. 
They  are  not  human." 

And  he  repeated,  shaking  his  long -white  locks:  "They 
are  not  human;  they  understand  nothing,  nothing,  noth- 
ing. They  are  moving  in  a  morbid  dream;  t"hey  are  anti- 
physical."  And  he  pronounced  the  word  "anti-physical" 
as  though  it  were  a  malediction. 

The  priest  knew  who  his  enemy  was,  but  as  he  wished 
to  remain  ruler  of  the  chateau  and  of  Jeanne,  he  tem- 
porized, sure  of  final  victory.  He  was  also  haunted  by  a 
fixed  idea.  He  had  discovered  by  chance  the  amours  of 
Julien  and  Gilberte,  and  he  desired  to  put  a  stop  to  them 
at  all  costs. 

He  came  to  see  Jeanne  one  day  and,  after  a  long  con- 
versation on  spiritual  matters,  he  asked  her  to  give  her 
aid  in  helping  him  to  fight,  to  put  an  end  to  the  evil  in 
her  own  family,  in  order  to  save  two  soiils  that  were  in 
danger. 

She  did  not  understand,  and  did  not  wish  to  know. 


UNE  VIE  131 

He  replied:     "The  hour  has  not  arrived.    I  shall  see  you' 
some  other  time."     And  he  left  abruptly. 

The  winter  was  coming  to  a  close,  a  rotten  winter,  as 
they  say  in  the  country,  damp  and  mild.  The  abbe 
called  again  some  days  later  and  hinted  mysteriously  at 
one  of  those  shameless  intrigues  between  persons  whose 
conduct  should  be  irreproachable.  It  was  the  duty,  he 
said,  of  those  who  were  aware  of  the  facts  to  use  every 
means  to  bring  it  to  an  end.  He  took  Jeanne's  hand  and 
adjured  her  to  open  her  eyes  and  understand  and  lend  him 
her  aid. 

This  time  she  understood,  but  she  was  silent,  terrified 
at  the  thought  of  all  that  might  result  in  the  house  that 
was  now  peaceful,  and  she  pretended  not  to  understand. 
Then  he  spoke  out  clearly. 

She  faltered:  "What  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  Monsieur 
I'Abbe?" 

"Anything,  rather  than  permit  this  infamy.  Anything, 
I  say.-     Leave  him.     Flee  from  this  impure  house!" 

"But  I  have  no  money:  and  then  I  have  no  longer 
any  courage;  and,  besides,  how  can  I  go  without  any 
proof?     I  have  not  the  right  to  do  so." 

The  priest  arose  trembling:  "That  is  cow^ardice, 
madame;  I  am  mistaken  in  you.  You  are  unworthy  of 
God's  mercy!" 

She  fell  on  her  knees:  "Oh,  I  pray  you  not  to  leave 
me,  tell  m_e  what  to  do!" 

"Open  M.  de  Fourville's  eyes,"  he  said  abruptly.  "It 
is  his  place  to  break  up  this  intrigue." 

This  idea  filled  her  vrith  terror.  "AVhy,  he  would 
kill  them,  ^lonsieur  I'Abbe!  And  I  should  be  guilty  of 
denouncing  them!     Oh,  never  that,  never!" 

He  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  curse  her  in  his  fury: 
"Remain  in  your  shame  and  your  crime;  for  you  are 
more  guilty  than  they  are.     You  are  the  complaisant 


132  UNE  VIE 

wife!  There  is  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  here."  And 
he  went  off  so  furious  that  he  trembled  all  over. 

She  followed  him,  distracted  and  ready  to  do  as  he 
suggested.  But  he  strode  along  rapidly,  shaking  his  large 
blue  umbrella  in  his  rage.  He  perceived  Julien  standing 
outside  the  gate  superintending  the  lopping  of  the  trees, 
so  he  turned  to  the  left  to  go  across  the  Couillard  farm, 
and  he  said:  "Leave  me  alone,  madame,  I  have  nothing 
further  to  say  to  you." 

Jeanne  was  entreating  him  to  give  her  a  few  days  for 
reflection,  and  then  if  he  came  back  to  the  chateau  she 
would  tell  him  what  she  had  done,  and  they  could  take 
counsel  together. 

Right  in  his  road,  in  the  middle  of  the  farmyard,  a 
group  of  children,  those  of  the  house  and  some  neigh- 
bor's children,  were  standing  around  the  kennel  of  Mirza, 
the  dog,  looking  curiously  at  something  with  silent  and 
concentrated  attention.  In  the  midst  of  them  stood  the 
baron,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  also  looking  on  with 
curiosity.  One  would  have  taken  him  for  a  schoolmaster. 
When  he  saw  the  priest  approaching,  he  moved  away  so 
as  not  to  have  to  meet  him  and  speak  to  him. 

The  priest  did  not  call  again;  but  the  following  Sun- 
day from  the  pulpit  he  hurled  imprecations,  curses  and 
threats  against  the  chateau,  anathematizing  the  baron, 
and  making  veiled  allusions,  but  timidly,  to  Julien's  latest 
intrigue.  The  vicomte  was  furious,  but  the  dread  of  a 
shocking  scandal  kept  him  silent.  At  each  service  there- 
after the  priest  declared  his  indignation,  predicting  tne 
approach  of  the  hour  when  God  would  smite  all  his 
enemies. 

Julien  wrote  a  firm,  but  respectful  letter  to  the  arch- 
bishop; the  abbe  was  threatened  with  suspension.  He 
was  silent  thereafter. 

Gilberte  and  Julien  now  frequently  met  him  during 
their  rides  reading  his  breviary,  but  they  turned  aside  so 


UNE  VIE  133 

as  not  to  pass  him  by.  Spring  had  come  and  reawakened 
their  love.  As  the  foliage  was  still  sparse  and  the  grass 
damp,  they  used  to  meet  in  a  shepherd's  movable  hut 
that  had  been  deserted  since  autumn.  But  one  day  when 
they  were  leaving  it,  they  saw  the  Abbe  Tolbiac,  almost 
hidden  in  the  sea  rushes  on  the  slope. 

"We  must  leave  our  horses  in  the  ravine,"  said  Julien, 
"as  they  can  be  seen  from  a  distance  and  would  betray 
us."  One  evening  as  they  were  coming  home  together 
to  La  Vrillette,  where  they  were  to  dine  with  the  comte, 
they  met  the  cure  of  Etouvent  coming  out  of  the  chateau. 
He  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  road  to  let  them  pass,  and 
bowed  without  their  eyes  meeting.  They  were  uneasy  for 
a  few  moments,  but  soon  forgot  it. 

One  afternoon,  Jeanne  was  reading  beside  the  fire 
while  a  storm  of  wind  was  raging  outside,  when  she  sud- 
denly perceived  Comte  Fourville  coming  on  foot  at  such 
a  pace  that  she  thought  some  misfortune  had  happened. 

She  ran  downstairs  to  meet  him,  and  when  she  saw 
him  she  thought  he  must  be  crazy.  He  wore  a  large 
quilted  cap  that  he  w^ore  only  at  home,  his  hunting  jacket, 
and  looked  so  pale  that  his  red  mustache,  usually  the 
color  of  his  skin,  now  seemed  like  a  flame.  His  eyes 
were  haggard,  rolling  as  though  his  mind  were  vacant. 

He  stammered:  "My  wife  is  here,  is  she  not?" 
Jeanne,  losing  her  presence  of  mind,  replied:  "Why,  no, 
I  have  not  seen  her  to-day." 

He  sat  down  as  if  his  legs  had  given  way.  He  then 
took  off  his  cap  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief mechanically  several  times.  Then  starting  up 
suddenly,  he  approached  Jeanne,  his  hands  stretched  out, 
his  mouth  open,  as  if  to  speak,  to  confide  some  great 
sorrow  to  her.  Then  he  stopped,  looked  at  her  fixedly 
and  said  as  though  he  were  wandering:     "But  it  is  your 

husband — you  also "    And  he  fled,  going  toward  the 

sea. 


134  UNE  VIE 

Jeanne  ran  after  him,  calling  him,  imploring  him  to 
stop,  her  heart  beating  with  apprehension  as  she  thought: 
"He  knows  all!  What  will  he  do?  Oh,  if  he  only  does 
not  find  them!" 

But  she  could  not  come  up  to  him,  md  he  disregarded 
her  appeals.  He  went  straight  ahead  without  hesitation, 
straight  to  his  goal.  He  crossed  the  ditch,  then,  stalk- 
ing through  the  sea  rushes  like  a  giant,  he  reached  the 
cliff. 

Jeanne,  standing  on  the  mound  covered  with  trees,  fol- 
lowed him  v/ith  her  eyes  until  he  was  out  cf  sight.  Then 
she  went  into  the  house,  distracted  with  grief. 

He  had  turned  to  the  right  and  started  to  run.  Threat- 
ening waves  overspread  the  sea,  big  black  clouds  were 
scudding  along  madly,  passing  on  and  followed  by  others, 
each  of  them  coming  down  in  a  furious  downpour.  The 
wind  whistled,  moaned,  laid  the  grass  and  the  young 
crops  low  and  carried  away  big  white  birds  that  looked 
like  specks  cf  foam  and  bore  them  far  into  the  land. 

The  hail  v/hich  followed  beat  in  the  comte's  face,  filling 
his  ears  with  noise  and  his  heart  witii  tumult. 

Down  yonder  before  him  w^as  the  deep  gorge  of  the 
Val  de  Vauccttte.  There  was  nothing  before  him  but  a 
shepherd's  hut  beside  a  deserted  ^heep  pasture.  Two 
horses  v/ere  tied  to  the  shafts  of  the  hut  on  wheels.  Wliat 
might  not  happen  to  one  m  such  a  tempest  as  this? 

As  soon  as  he  saw  them  the  comte  crouched  on  the 
ground  and  crawled  along  en  his  hands  and  knees  as  far 
as  the  lonely  hut  and  hid  himself  beneath  the  hut  that  he 
might  not  be  seen  through  the  cracks.  The  horse  on 
seeing  him  became  restive.  He  slowly  cut  tlieir  reins 
with  the  knife  which  he  held  open  in  his  hand,  and  a 
sudden  squall  coming  up,  the  animals  fled,  frightened 
at  the  hail  w'hidh  rattled  on  the  sloping  roof  of  the  wooden 
hut  and  made  it  shake  on  its  wheels. 

The  comte  then  kneeling  upright,  put  his  eye  to  the 


UNE  VIE  135 

bottom  of  the  door  and  looked  inside.    He  did  not  stir; 
he  seemed  to  be  waiting. 

A  little  time  elapsed  and  then  he  suddenly  rose  to  his 
feet,  covered  with  mud  from  head  to  foot.  He  frantic- 
ally pushed  back  the  bolt  which  closed  the  hut  on  the 
outside,  and  seizing  the  shafts,  he  began  to  shake  the 
hut  as  though  he  would  break  it  to  pieces.  Then  all  at 
once  he  got  between  the  shafts,  bending  his  huge  frame, 
and  with  a  desperate  effort  dragged  it  along  like  an  ox, 
panting  as  he  went.  He  dragged  it,  with  whoever  was 
in  it,  toward  the  steep  incline. 

Those  inside  screamed  and  banged  with  their  fists  on 
the  door,  not  understanding  what  v/as  going  on. 

\Vhen  he  reached  the  top  of  the  cliff  he  let  go  the 
fragile  dwelling,  which  began  to  roll  dov/n  the  incline, 
going  faster  and  faster,  plunging,  stumbling  like  an  anim.al 
and  striking  the  ground  with  its  shafts. 

An  old  beggar  hidden  in  a  ditch  saw  it  flying  over  his 
head  and  heard  frightful  screams  coming  from  the  w^ooden 
box. 

All  at  once  a  wheel  was  vv'renched  off  and  it  fell  on 
its  side  and  began  to  roll  like  a  ball,  as  a  house  torn  from 
its  foundations  mi^ht  roll  from  the  summit  of  a  mountain. 
Then,  reaching  the  ledge  of  the  last  ravine,  it  described  a 
circle,  and,  falling  to  the  bottom,  burst  open  as  an 
egg  might  do.  It  was  no  sooner  smashed  on  the  stones 
than  the  old  beggar,  v\'ho  had  seen  it  going  past,  w'ent 
down  toward  it  slowly  amid  the  rushes,  and  with  the 
customary  caution  of  a  peasant,  not  daring  to  go  directly 
to  the  shattered  hut,  he  went  to  the  nearest  farm  to  tell  of 
the  accident. 

They  all  ran  to  look  at  it  and  raised  the  wreck  of  the 
hut.  They  found  two  bodies,  bmised,  crushed  and  bleed- 
ing. The  man's  forehead  was  split  open  and  his  whole 
face  crushed;   the  w^oman's  jaw  was  hanging,  dislocated 


136  UNE  VIE 

in  one  of  the  jolts,  and  their  shattered  limbs  were  soft 
as  pulp. 

"What  were  they  doing  in  that  shanty?"  said  a  woman. 

The  old  beggar  then  said  that  they  had  apparently  taken 
refuge  in  it  to  get  out  of  the  storm  and  that  a  furious 
squall  must  have  blown  the  hut  over  the  cliff.  He  said 
he  had  intended  to  take  shelter  there  himself,  when  he 
saw  the  horses  tied  to  it,  and  understood  that  some  one 
else  must  be  inside.  "But  for  that,"  he  added  in  a 
satisfied  tone,  "I  might  have  rolled  down  in  it."  Some 
one  remarked:  "Would  not  that  have  been  a  good 
thing?" 

The  old  man,  in  a  furious  rage,  said:  "Why  would 
it  have  been  a  good  thing?  Because  I  am  poor  and  they 
are  rich!  Look  at  them  now."  And  trembling,  ragged 
and  dripping  with  rain,  he  pointed  to  the  two  dead  bodies 
with  his  hooked  stick  and  exclaimed:  "We  are  all  alike 
when  we  get  to  this." 

The  comte,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  hut  rolling  down  the 
steep  slope,  ran  off  at  full  speed  through  the  blinding 
storm.  He  ran  in  this  way  for  several  hours,  taking  short 
cuts,  leaping  across  ditches,  breaking  through  the  hedges, 
and  thus  got  back  home  at  dusk,  not  knowing  how 
himself. 

The  frightened  servants  were  awaiting  his  return  and 
told  him  that  the  two  horses  had  returned  riderless  some 
time  before,  that  of  Julien  following  the  other  one. 

Then  M.  de  Fourville  reeled  and  in  a  choked  voice  said: 
"Something  must  have  happened  to  them  in  this  dreadful 
weather.     Let  every  one  help  to  look  for  them." 

He  started  off  himself,  but  he  was  no  sooner  out  of 
sight  than  he  concealed  himself  in  a  clump  of  bushes, 
watching  the  road  along  which  she  whom  he  even  still 
loved  v/ith  an  almost  savage  passion  was  to  return  dead, 
dying  or  maybe  crippled  and  disfigured  forever. 


UNE  VIE  137 

And  soon  a  carriole  passed  by  carrying  a  strange 
burden. 

It  stopped  at  the  chateau  and  passed  through  the  gate. 
It  was  that,  it  was  she.  But  a  fearful  anguish  nailed 
him  to  the  spot,  a  fear  to  know  the  worst,  a  dread  of 
the  truth,  and  he  did  not  stir,  hiding  as  a  hare,  starting 
at  the  least  sound. 

He  waited  thus  an  hour,  two  hours  perhaps.  The 
buggy  did  not  come  out.  He  concluded  that  his  wife  was 
expiring,  and  the  thought  of  seeing  her,  of  meeting  her 
gaze  filled  him  with  so  much  horror  that  he  suddenly 
feared  to  be  discovered  in  his  hiding  place  and  of  being 
compelled  to  return  and  be  present  at  this  agony,  and  he 
then  fled  into  the  thick  of  the  wood.  Then  all  of  a  sudden 
it  occurred  to  him  that  she  perhaps  might  be  needing  his 
care,  that  no  one  probably  could  properly  attend  to  her. 
Then  he  returned  on  his  tracks,  running  breathlessly. 

On  entering  the  chateau  he  met  the  gardener  and 
called  out  to  him.  "Well?"  The  man  did  not  dare  an- 
swer him..  Then  M.  de  Fourville  almost  roared  at  him: 
"Is  she  dead?"  and  the  servant  stammered:  "Yes,  M.  le 
Comte." 

He  experienced  a  feeling  of  immense  relief.  His  blood 
seemed  to  cool  and  his  nerves  relax  somewhat  of  their 
extreme  tension,  and  he  walked  firmly  up  the  steps  of  his 
great  hallway. 

The  other  wagon  had  reached  "The  Poplars."  Jeanne 
saw  it  from  afar.  She  descried  the  mattress:  she  (Tuessed 
that  a  human  form  was  lying  upon  it,  and  understood 
all.  Her  emotion  was  so  vivid  that  she  swooned  and  fell 
prostrate. 

When  she  regained  consciousness  her  father  was  hold- 
ing her  head  and  bathing  her  temples  with  vinegar.  Re 
said  hesitatingly:  "Do  you  know?"  She  murmured: 
"Yes,  father."  But  when  she  attempted  to  rise  she  found 
herself  unable  to  do  so,  so  intense  was  her  agony. 


138  UNE  VIE 

That  very  night  she  gave  birth  to  a  stillborn  infant,  a 
girl. 

Jeanne  saw  nothing  of  the  funeral  of  Julien;  she  knew 
nothing  of  it.  She  merely  noticed  at  the  end  of  a  day 
or  two  that  Aunt  Lison  was  back,  and  in  her  feverish 
dreams  which  haunted  her  she  persistently  sought  to 
recall  when  the  old  maiden  lady  had  left  "The  Poplars," 
at  what  period  and  under  what  circumstances.  She  could 
not  make  this  out,  even  in  her  lucid  moments,  but  she  was 
certain  of  having  seen  her  subsequent  to  the  death  of 
"little  mother." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  PAUL 

Jeanne  did  not  leave  her  room  for  three  months  and 
was  so  wan  and  pale  that  no  one  thought  she  would 
recover.  But  she  picked  up  by  degrees.  Little  father 
and  Aunt  Lison  never  left  her;  they  had  both  taken  up 
their  abode  at  "The  Poplars."  The  shock  of  Julien's 
death  had  left  her  with  a  nervous  malady.  The  slightest 
sound  made  her  faint  and  she  had  long  swoons  from  the 
most  insignificant  causes. 

She  had  never  asked  the  details  of  Julien's  death. 
What  did  it  matter  to  her?  Did  she  not  know  enough 
already?  Every  one  thought  it  was  an  accident,  but  she 
knew  better,  and  she  kept  to  herself  this  secret  which 
tortured  her:  the  knowledge  of  his  infidelity  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  abrupt  and  terrible  visit  of  the 
comte  on  the  day  of  the  catastrophe. 

And  now  she  was  filled  with  tender,  sweet  and  melan- 
choly recollections  of  the  brief  evidences  of  love  shown 
her  by  her  husband.  She  constantly  thrilled  at  unex- 
pected memories  of  him,  and  she  seemed  to  see  him  as  he 
was  when  they  were  betrothed  and  as  she  had  known 
him  in  the  hours  passed  beneath  the  sunlight  in  Corsica. 
All  his  faults  diminished,  all  his  harshness  vanished,  his 
very  infidelities  appeared  less  glaring  in  the  widening 
separation  of  the  closed  tomb.  And  Jeanne,  pervaded 
by  a  sort  of  posthumous  gratitude  for  this  man  who  had 

139 


140  UNE  VIE 

held  her  in  his  arms,  forgave  all  the  suffering  he  had 
caused  her,  to  remember  only  .moments  of  happiness 
they  had  passed  together.  Then,  as  time  went  on  and 
month  followed  month,  covering  all  her  grief  and  rem- 
niscences  with  forgetfulness,  she  devoted  herself  entirely 
to  her  son. 

He  became  the  idol,  the  one  thought  of  the  three  beinr^s 
who  surrounded  him,  and  he  ruled  as  a  despot.  A  kind 
of  jealousy  even  arose  among  his  slaves.  Jeanne  watched 
with  anxiety  the  great  kisses  he  gave  his  grandfather 
after  a  ride  on  his  knee,  and  Aunt  Lison,  neglected  by  him 
as  she  had  been  by  every  one  else  and  treated  often  like 
a  servant  by  this  little  tyrant  who  could  scarcely  speak 
as  yet,  would  go  to  her  room  and  weep  as  she  compared 
the  slight  affection  he  showed  her  with  the  kisses  he  gave 
his  mother  and  the  baron. 

Two  years  passed  quietly,  and  at  the  beg"nning  of  the 
third  winter  it  was  decided  that  they  should  go  to  Rouen 
to  live  imtil  spring,  and  the  whole  family  set  out.  But 
on  their  arrival  in  the  old  damp  house,  that  had  been 
shut  up  for  some  time,  Paul  had  such  a  severe  attack  of 
bronchitis  that  his  three  relatives  in  despair  declared  that 
he  could  not  do  without  the  air  of  '^The  Poplars."  They 
took  him  back  there  and  he  got  well. 

Then  began  a  series  of  quiet,  monotonous  years.  Al- 
ways around  the  little  one,  they  went  into  raptures  at 
everything  he  did.  His  mother  called  him  Poulet,  and 
as  he  could  not  pronounce  the  word,  he  said  "Pol,"  which 
amused  them  immensely,  and  the  nickname  of  'Toulet" 
stuck  to  him. 

The  favorite  occupation  of  his  "three  mothers,"  as  the 
baron  called  his  relatives,  was  to  see  how  much  he  had 
grown,  and  for  this  purpose  they  made  little  notches  in 
the  casing  of  the  drawing-room  door,  showing  his  prog- 
ress from  month  to  month.  This  ladder  was  caJled 
"Poulet's  ladder,"  and  was  an  important  affair. 


UNE  VIE  141 

A  new  individual  began  to  play  a  part  in  th'e  affairs 
of  the  household — the  dog  "Massacre,"  who  became  Paul's 
inseparable  companion. 

Rare  visits  were  exchanged  with  the  Brisevilles  and 
the  Coutellers.  The  mayor  and  the  doctor  alone  were 
regular  visitors.  Since  the  episode  of  the  mother  dog  and 
the  suspicion  Jeanne  had  entertained  of  the  priest  on  the 
occasion  of  the  terrible  death  of  the  comtesse  and  Julien, 
Jeanne  had  not  entered  the  church,  angry  with  a  divinity 
that  could  tolerate  such  ministers. 

The  church  v/as  deserted  and  the  priest  came  to  be 
looked  on  as  a  sorcerer  because  he  had,  so  they  said, 
driven  out  an  evil  spirit  from  a  woman  who  was  pos- 
sessed, and  although  fearing  him  the  peasants  came  to 
respect  him  for  this  occult  power  as  well  as  for  the  unim- 
peachable austerity  of  his  life. 

\\Tien  he  met  Jeanne  he  never  spoke.  This  condition 
of  affairs  distressed  Aunt  Lison,  and  when  she  was  alone, 
quite  alone  with  Paul,  she  talked  to  him  about  God,  tell- 
ing him  the  wonderful  stones  of  the  early  history  of  the 
world.  But  when  she4:old  him  that  he  must  love  Plim  very 
much,  the  child  would  say:  "WTiere  is  He,  auntie?" 
"Up  there,"  she  would  say,  pointing  to  the  sky;  "up 
there,  Poulet,  but  do  not  say  so."  She  was  afraid  of  the 
baron. 

One  day,  however,  Poulet  said  to  her:  "God  is  every- 
where, but  He  is  not  in  church."  He  had  told  his  grand- 
father of  his  aunt's  wonderful  revelations. 

When  Paul  vras  tv/elve  years  old  a  great  difficulty  arose 
on  the  subject,  of  his  first  communion. 

Lison  came  to  Jeanne  one  morning  and  told  her  that 
the  little  fellow  should  no  longer  be  kept  without  re- 
ligious instruction  and  from  his  religious  duties.  His 
mother,  troubled  and  undecided,  hesitated,  saying  that 
there  was  time  enough.  But  a  month  later,  as  she  was 
returning  a  call  at  tlie  Brisevilles',  the  comtesse  asked  her 


142  UNE  VIE 

casually  if  Paul  was  going  to  make  his  first  communion 
that  year.  Jeanne,  unpren-^red  for  this,  answered,  "Yes," 
and  this  simple  word  decided  her,  and  without  saying  a 
word  to  her  father,  she  asked  Aunt  Lison  to  take  the  boy 
to  the  catechism  class. 

All  went  well  for  a  month,  but  one  day  Paul  came 
home  with  a  hoarseness  and  the  following  day  he  .coughed. 
On  inquiry  his  mother  learned  that  the  priest  had  sent 
him  to  wait  till  the  lesson  was  over  at  the  door  of  the 
church,  where  there  was  a  draught,  because  he  had  mis- 
behaved. So  she  kept  him  at  home  and  taught  him 
herself.  But  the  Abbe  Tobiac,  despite  Aunt  Lison's 
entreaties,  refused  to  admit  him  as  a  communicant  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  not  thoroughly  taught. 

The  same  thing  occurred  the  following  year,  and  the 
baron  savagely  swore  that  the  child  did  not  need  to 
believe  all  that  tomfoolery,  so  it  was  decided  that  he 
should  be  brought  up  as  a  Christian,  but  not  as  an  active 
Catholic,  and  when  he  came  of  age  he  could  believe  as  he 
pleased. 

The  Brisevilles  ceased  to  call  on  her  and  Jeanne  was 
surprised,  knowing  the  punctiliousness  of  these  neighbors 
in  returning  calls,  but  the  Marquise  de  Coutelier  haughtily 
told  her  the  reason.  Considering  herself,  in  virtue  of  her 
husband's  rank  and  fortune,  a  sort  of  queen  of  the  Norman 
nobility,  the  marquise  ruled  as  a  queen,  said  what  she 
thought,  was  gracious  or  the  reverse  as  occasion  de- 
manded, admonishing,  restoring  to  favor,  congratulating 
whenever  she  saw  fit.  So  when  Jeanne  came  to  see  her, 
this  lady,  after  a  few  chilling  remarks,  said  drily:  "Society 
is  divided  into  tvv^o  classes:  those  who  believe  in  God 
and  those  who  do  not  believe  in  Him.  The  former,  even 
the  humblest,  are  our  friends,  our  equals;  the  latter  are 
nothing  to  us." 

Jeanne,  perceiving  the  insinuation,  replied:  "But  may 
one  not  believe  in  God  Avithout  going  to  church?" 


UNE  VIE  143 

"No,  madame,"  answered  the  marquise.  ''The  faith- 
ful go  to  worship  God  in  His  church,  just  as  one  goes  to 
see  people  in  their  homes." 

Jeanne,  hurt,  replied:  "God  is  everywhere,  madame. 
As  for  me,  who  believes  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  in 
His  goodness,  I  no  longer  feel  His  presence  w^en  certain 
priests  come  between  Him  and  me." 

The  marquis  rose.  "The  priest  is  the  standard  bearer 
of  the  Church,  madame.  Whoever  does  not  follow  the 
standard  is  opposed  to  Him  and  opposed  to  us." 

Jeanne  had  risen  in  her  turn  and  said,  trembling:  "You 
believe,  madame,  in  a  partisan  God.  I  believe  in  the 
God  of  upright  people."    She  bowed  and  took  her  leave. 

The  peasants  also  blamed  her  among  themselves  for 
not  having  let  Poulet  make  his  first  communion.  They 
themselves  never  attended  service  or  took  the  sacrament 
unless  it  might  be  at  Easter,  according  to  the  rule  or- 
dained by  the  Church;  but  for  boys  it  was  quite  another 
thing,  and  they  would  have  all  shrunk  in  horror  at  the 
audacity  of  bringing  up  a  child  outside  this  recognized 
law,  for  religion  is  religion. 

She  saw  how  they  felt  and  was  indignant  at  heart  at 
all  these  discriminations,  all  these  compromises  with  con- 
science, this  general  fear  of  everything,  the  real  cowardice 
of  all  hearts  and  the  mask  of  respectability  assumed  in 
public. 

The  baron  took  charge  of  Paul's  studies  and  made  him 
study  Latin,  his  mother  merely  saying:  "Above  all 
things,  do  not  get  over  tired." 

As  soon  as  the  boy  was  at  liberty  he  went  dovm  to 
work  in  the  garden  with  his  mother  and  his  aunt. 

He  now  loved  to  dig  in  the  ground,  and  all  three 
planted  young  trees  in  the  spring,  sowed  seed  and  watched 
it  growing  with  the  deepest  interest,  pruned  branches  and 
cut  flowers  for  bouquets. 

Poulet  was  almost  fifteen,  but  was  a  mere  child  in 


144  UNE  VIE 

intelligence,  ignorant,  silly,  suppressed  between  petticoat 
government  and  this  kind  old  man  who  belonged  to  an- 
other century. 

One  evening  the  baron  spoke  of  college,  and  Jeanne 
at  once  began  to  sob.  Aunt  Lison  timidly  remained  in  a 
dark  comer. 

"Why  does  he  need  to  know  so  much?"  asked  his 
mother.  "We  will  make  a  gentleman  farmer  of  him. 
He  can  cultivate  his  land,  as  many  of  the  nobility  do. 
He  will  live  and  grow  old  happily  in  this  house,  where 
we  have  lived  before  him  and  where  we  shall  die.  What 
more  can  one  do?" 

But  the  baron  shook  his  head.  "What  would  you  say 
to  him  if  he  should  say  to  you  when  he  is  twentj^-five: 
'I  amount  to  nothing,  I  know  nothing,  all  through  your 
fault,  the  fault  of  your  maternal  selfishness.  I  feel  that 
I  am  incapable  of  worldng,  of  making  something  of 
myself,  and  yet  I  was  not  intended  for  a  secluded,  simple 
life,  lonely  enough  to  kill  one,  to  which  I  have  been 
condemned  by  your  short-sighted  affection.'  " 

She  was  weeping  and  said  entreatingly:  "Tell  me, 
Poulet,  you  will  not  reproach  me  for  having  loved  you 
too  well?"  And  the  big  boy,  in  surprise,  promised  that 
he  never  would.  "Swear  it,"  she  said.  "Yes,  mamma." 
"You  want  to  stay  here,  don't  you?"    "Yes,  mamma." 

Then  the  baron  spoke  Up  loud  and  decidedly:  "Jeanne, 
you  have  no  right  to  make  disposition  of  this  life.  What 
you  are  doing  is  cowardly  and  almost  criminal;  you 
are  sacrificing  your  child  to  your  own  private  happiness." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing  convulsively, 
and  stammered  out  amid  her  tears:  "I  have  been  so 
unhappy — so  unhappy!  Now,  just  as  I  am  living  peace- 
fully with  him,  they  want  to  take  him  away  from  me. 
What  will  become  of  me  now — all  by  myself?"  Her 
father  rose  and,  sitting  down  beside  her,  put  his  arms 
round  her.    "And  how  about  me,  Jeanne?" 


UNE  VIE  145 

She  put  her  arms  suddenly  round  his  neck,  gave  him 
a  hearty  kiss  and  with  her  voice  full  of  tears,  she  said: 
"Yes,  you  are  right  perhaps,  little  father.  I  was  foolish, 
but  I  have  suffered  so  much.  I  am  quite  willing  he  should 
go  to  college." 

And  w^ithout  knowing  exactl}^  what  they  were  going 
to  do  \^ith  him,  Poulet  in  his  turn  began  to  \veep. 

Then  the  three  mothers  began  to  kiss  him  and  pet 
him  and  encourage  him.  When  they  retired  to  their 
room,s  it  was  with  a  weight  at  their  hearts,  and  they  all 
wept,  even  the  baron,  who  had  restrained  himself  up  to 
that. 

It  was  decided  that  when  the  term  began  to  put  the 
young  boy  to  school  at  Havre,  and  during  the  summer 
he  was  petted  more  than  ever;  his  mother  sighed  often 
as  she  thought  of  the  separation.  She  prepared  his  ward- 
robe as  if  he  were  going  to  undertake  a  ten  years'  voyage. 
One  October  morning,  after  a  sleepless  night,  the  two 
women  and  the  baron  got  into  the  carriage  with  him  and 
set  out  on  their  journey. 

They  had  previously  selected  his  place  in  the  dormitory 
and  his  desk  in  the  school  room.  Jeanne,  aided  by  Aunt 
Lison,  spent  the  whole  day  in  arranging  his  clothes  in 
his  little  wardrobe.  As  it  did  not  hold  a  quarter  of  what 
they  had  brought,  she  went  to  look  for  the  superintendent 
to  ask  for  another.  The  treasurer  was  called,  but  he 
pointed  out  that  all  that  amount  of  clothing  would  only 
be  in  the  way  and  would  never  be  needed,  and  he  re- 
fused, on  behalf  of  the  directors,  to  let  her  have  another 
chest  of  drawers.  Jeanne,  much  annoyed,  decided  to  hire 
a  room  in  a  small  neighboring  hotel,  begging  the  pro- 
prietor to  go  himself  and  take  Poulet  ^^'hatever  he  required 
as  soon  as  the  boy  asked  for  it. 

They  then  took  a  walk  on  the  pier  to  look  at  the  ships 
com.ing  and  going.  They  went  into  a  restaurant  to  dine, 
but  they  were  none  of  them  able  to  eat,  and  looked  at 


146  UNE  VIE 

one  another  with  moistened  eyes  as  the  dishes  were 
brought  on  and  taken  away  unt-ouched. 

They  now  returned  slowly  toward  the  school.  Boys 
of  all  ages  were  arriving  from  all  quarters,  accompanied 
by  their  families  or  by  servants.  Many  of  them  were 
crying. 

Jeanne  held  Poulet  in  a  long  embrace,  while  Aunt 
Lison  rem.ained  in  the  background,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  handkerchief.  The  baron,  however,  who  was  be- 
coming affected,  cut  short  the  adieus  by  dragging  his 
daughter  away.  They  got  into  the  carriage  and  went 
back  through  the  darkness  to  "The  Poplars,"  the  silence 
being  broken  by  an  occasional  sob. 

Jeanne  wept  all  the  following  day  and  on  the  day 
after  drove  to  Havre  in  the  phaeton.  Poulet  seemed  to 
have  become  reconciled  to  the  separation.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  now  had  playmates,  and  in  his  anxiety 
to  join  them  he  could  scarcely  sit  still  on  his  chair  when 
his  mother  called.  She  continued  her  visits  to  him  every 
other  day  and  called  to  take  him  home  on  Sundays.  Not 
knowing  what  to  do  with  herself  while  school  was  in 
session  until  recreation  time,  she  would  remain  sitting  in 
the  reception  room,  not  having  the  strength  or  the  courage 
to  go  very  far  from  the  school.  The  superintendent  sent 
to  ask  her  to  come  to  his  office  and  begged  her  not  to 
come  so  frequently.  She  paid  no  attention  to  his  re- 
quest. He  therefore  informed  her  that  if  she  continued 
to  prevent  her  son  from  taking  his  recreation  at  the 
usual  hours,  obliging  him  to  work  without  a  change  of 
occupation,  they  would  be  forced  to  send  him  back  home 
again,  and  the  baron  was  also  notified  to  the  same  effect. 
She  was  consequently  watched  like  a  prisoner  at  "The 
Poplars." 

She  became  restless  and  worried  and  would  ramble 
about  for  whole  days  in  the  country,  accompanied  only 
by  Massacre,  dreaming  as  she  walked  along.     Sometimes 


UNE  VIE  147 

she  would  remain  seated  for  a  whole  afternoon,  looking 
out  at  the  sea  from  the  top  of  the  cliff;  at  other  times 
she  would  go  down  to  Yport  through  the  wood,  going 
over  the  ground  of  her  former  walks,  the  memory  of 
which  haunted  her.  How  long  ago — ^how  long  ago  it  was 
— the  time  when  she  had  gone  over  these  same  paths 
as  a  young  girl,  carried  away  by  her  dreams. 

Poulet  was  not  very  industrious  at  school;  he  was  kept 
two  years  in  the  fourth  form.  The  third  year's  work 
was  only  tolerable  and  he  had  to  begin  the  second  over 
again,  so  that  he  was  in  rhetoric  when  he  was  twenty. 

He  was  now  a  big,  fair  young  man,  with  downy 
whiskers  and  a  faint  sign  of  a  mustache.  He  now  came 
home  to  "The  Poplars"  every  Sunday,  riding  over  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  his  mother,  Aunt  Lison  and  the  baron 
starting  out  early  to  go  and  meet  him. 

Although  he  was  a  head  taller  than  his  mother,  she 
always  treated  him  as  though  he  were  a  child,  and  w^hen 
he  returned  to  school  in  the  evening  she  would  charge 
him  anxiously  not  to  go  too  fast  and  to  think  of  his 
poor  mother,  who  would  break  her  heart  if  anything  hap- 
pened to  him. 

One  Saturday  morning  she  received  a  letter  from  Paul, 
saying  that  he  would  not  be  home  on  the  following  day 
because  some  friends  had  arranged  an  excursion  and 
had  invited  him.  She  was  tormented  with  anxiety  all 
day  Sunday,  as  though  she  dreaded  some  misfortune, 
and  on  Thursday,  as  she  could  endure  it  no  longer,  she 
set  out  for  Havre. 

He  seemed  to  be  changed,  though  she  could  not  have 
told  in  what  manner.  He  appeared  excited  and  his 
voice  seemed  deeper.  And  suddenly,  as  though  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  he  said:  "I  say, 
mother,  as  long  as  you  have  come  to-day,  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I  will  not  be  at  'The  Poplars'  next  Sunday,  for 
we  are  going  to  have  another  excursion." 


148  UNE  VIE 

She  was  amazed,  smothering,  as  if  he  had  announced 
his  departure  for  America.  At  last,  recovering  herself, 
she  said:  "Oh,  Poulet,  what  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Tell  me  what  is  going  on." 

He  began  to  laugh,  and  kissing  her,  replied:  "Why, 
nothing,  nothing,  mam.ma.  I  am  going  to  have  a  good 
time  with  my  friends;  I  am  just  at  that  age." 

She  had  nothing  to  say,  but  when  she  was  alone  in 
the  carriage  all  manner  of  ideas  came  into  her  mind. 
She  no  longer  recognized  him,  her  Poulet,  her  little  Poulet 
of  former  days.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  that  he  was 
grown  up,  that  he  no  longer  belonged  to  her,  that  he 
was  going  to  live  his  life  without  troubling  himself  about 
the  old  people.  It  seemed  to  her  that  one  day  hat.  wrought 
this  change  in  him.  Was  it  possible  that  this  was  her  son, 
her  poor  little  boy  who  had  helped  her  to  replant  the 
lettuce,  this  great  big  bearded  youth  who  had  a  will  of  his 
own! 

For  three  months  Paul  came  home  only  occasionally, 
and  always  seemed  impatient  to  get  away  again,  trying 
to  steal  off  an  hour  earlier  each  evening.  Jeanne  was 
alarmed,  but  the  baron  consoled  her,  saying:  "Let  him 
alone;  the  boy  is  twenty  years  old." 

One  morning,  however,  an  old  man,  poorly  dressed, 
inquired  in  German- French  for  "Matame  la  Vicom- 
tesse,"  and  after  many  ceremonious  bows,  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  dilapidated  pocketbook,  saying:  "Che 
un  betit  bapier  bour  fous,"  and  unfolding  as  he  handed 
it  to  her  a  piece  of  greasy  paper.  She  read  and  reread 
it,  looked  at  the  Jew,  read  it  over  again  and  asked: 
"What  does  it  mean?" 

He  obsequiously  explained:  "I  will  tell  you.  Your 
son  needed  a  little  money,  and  as  I  knew  that  you  are  a 
good  mother,  I  lent  him  a  trifle  to  help  him  out." 

Jeanne  was  trembling.  "But  why  did  he  not  ask  me?^* 
The  Jew  explained  at  length  that  it  was  a  question  of  a 


UNE  VIE  149 

debt  that  must  be  paid  before  noon  the  following  day; 
that  Paul  not  being  of  age,  no  one  would  have  lent  him 
anything,  and  that  his  "honor  would  have  been  compro- 
mised" without  this  little  service  that  he  had  rendered  the 
young  man. 

Jeanne  tried  to  call  the  baron,  but  had  not  the  strength 
to  rise,  she  was  so  overcome  by  emotion.  At  length  she 
said  to  the  usurer:  "Would  you  have  the  kindness  to 
ring  the  bell?" 

He  hesitated,  fearing  seme  trap,  and  then  stammered 
out:  "If  I  am  intruding,  I  will  call  again."  She  shook 
her  head  in  the  negative.  He  then  rang,  and  they  w^aited 
in  silence,  siting  opposite  each  other. 

\^^en  the  baron  came  in  he  understood  the  situation 
at  once.  The  note  was  for  fifteen  hundred  francs.  He 
paid  one  thousand,  saying  close  to  the  man's  face:  "And 
on  no  account  come  back."  The  other  thanked  him  and 
went  his  way. 

The  baron  and  Jeanne  set  out  at  once  for  Havre.  On 
reaching  the  college  they  learned  that  Paul  had  not  been 
there  for  a  month.  The  principal  had  received  four  letters 
signed  by  Jeanne  saying  that  his  pupil  w^as  not  well  and 
then  to  tell  how  he  was  getting  along.  Each  letter  was 
accompanied  by  a  doctor's  certificate.  Thev  were,  of 
course,  all  forged.  They  were  all  dumfounded,  and  stood 
there  looking  at  each  other. 

The  principal,  very  much  worried,  took  them  to  the 
commissary  of  police.  Jeanne  and  her  father  stayed  at  a 
hotel  that  night.  The  following  day  the  young  man  was 
found  in  the  apartment  of  a  courtesan  of  the  town.  His 
grandfather  and  mother  took  him  back  to  "The  Poplars" 
and  not  a  w^ord  was  exchanged  betw^een  them  during  the 
whole  journey. 

A  week  later  they  discovered  that  he  had  contracted 
fifteen  thousand  francs'  worth  of  debts  within  the  last  three 


ISO  UNE  VIE 

months.     His  creditors  had  not  come  forward  at  first, 
knowing  that  he  would  soon  be  of  age. 

They  entered  into  no  discussion  about  it,  hoping  to 
win  him  back  by  gentleness.  They  gave  him  dainty 
food,  petted  him,  spoiled  him.  It  was  spring  and  they 
hired  a  boat  for  him  at  Yport,  in  spite  of  Jeanne's  fears, 
so  that  he  might  amuse  himself  on  the  water. 

They  would  not  let  him  have  a  horse,  for  fear  he  should 
ride  to  Havre. 

He  was  there  with  nothing  to  do  and  became  irritable 
and  occasionally  brutally  so.  The  baron  was  worried  at 
the  discontinuance  of  his  studies.  Jeanne,  distracted  at 
the  idea  of  a  separation,  asked  herself  what  they  could  do 
with  him. 

One  evening  he  did  not  come  home.  They  learned  that 
he  had  gone  out  in  a  boat  with  two  sailors.  His  mother, 
beside  herself  with  anxiety,  went  down  to  Yport  without 
a  hat  in  the  dark.  Some  men  were  on  the  beach,  waiting 
for  the  boat  to  come  in.  There  was  a  light  on  board  an 
incoming  boat,  but  Paul  was  not  on  board.  He  had 
made  them  take  him  to  Havre. 

The  police  sought  him  in  vain;  he  could  not  be  found. 
The  woman  with  whom  he  had  been  found  the  first  time 
had  also  disappeared  without  leaving  any  trace;  her  furni- 
ture was  sold  and  her  rent  paid.  In  Paul's  room  at  "The 
Poplars''  were  found  two  letters  from  this  person,  who 
seemed  to  be  madly  in  love  with  him.  She  spoke  of  a 
voyage  to  England,  having,  she  said,  obtained  the  neces- 
sary funds. 

The  three  dwellers  in  the  chateau  lived  silently  and 
drearily,  their  minds  tortured  by  all  kinds  of  suppositions. 
Jeanne's  hair,  which  had  become  gray,  now  turned  per- 
fectly white.  She  asked  in  her  innocence  why  fate  had 
thus  afflicted  her. 

She  received  a  letter  from  the  Abbe  Tolbiac:  "Ma- 
dame, the  hand  of  God  is  weighing  heavily  on  you.    You 


UNE  VIE  151 

refused  Him  your  child;  He  took  him  from  you  in  His 
turn  to  cast  him  into  the  hands  of  a  prostitute.  Will 
not  you  open  your  eyes  at  this  lesson  from  Heaven? 
God's  mercy  is  infinite.  Perhaps  He  may  pardon  you  if 
you  return  and  fall  on  your  knees  before  Him.  I  am 
His  humble  servant.  I  will  open  to  you  the  door  of  His 
dwelling  when  you  come  and  knock  at  it." 

She  sat  a  long  time  with  this  letter  on  her  lap.  Per- 
haps it  was  true  what  the  priest  said.  And  all  her 
religious  doubts  began  to  torment  her  conscience.  And 
in  her  cowardly  hesitation,  which  drives  to  church  the 
doubting,  the  sorrowful,  she  went  furtively  one  evening 
at  twilight  to  the  parsonage,  and  kneeling  at  the  feet  of 
the  thin  abbe,  begged  for  absolution. 

He  promised  her  a  conditional  pardon,  as  God  could 
not  pour  down  all  His  favors  on  a  roof  that  sheltered  a 
man  like  the  baron.  "You  will  soon  feel  the  effects  of 
the  divine  mercy,"  he  declared. 

Two  days  later  she  did,  indeed,  receive  a  letter  from 
her  son,  and  in  her  discouragement  and  grief  she  looked 
upon  this  as  the  commencement  of  the  consolation  prom- 
ised her  by  tlie  abbe. 

The  letter  ran: 


"My  Dear  Mamma:  Do  not  be  imeasy.  I  am  in 
London,  in  good  health,  in  very  great  neei  of  money. 
We  have  not  a  sou  left,  and  we  do  not  have  anything 
to  eat  some  days.  The  one  who  is  with  m.e,  and  whom 
I  love  with  all  my  heart,  has  spent  all  that  she  had  so 
as  not  to  leave  me — five  thousand  francs — and  you  see 
that  I  am  bound  in  honor  to  return  her  this  sum  in 
the  first  place.  So  I  wish  you  w^ould  be  kind  enough 
to  advance  me  fifteen  thousand  francs  of  papa's  for- 
tune, for  I  shall  soon  be  of  age.  This  will  help  me  out 
of  very  serious  difficulties. 


152  UNE  VIE 

"Good-by,  my  dear  mamma.  I  embrace  you  with 
all  my  heart,  and  also  grandfather  and  Aunt  Lison. 
I  hope  to  see  you  soon. 

"Your  son, 

"VicoMTE  Paul  de  Lamare." 


He  had  written  to  her!  He  had  not  forgotten  her  then. 
She  did  not  care  anything  about  his  asking  for  money! 
She  would  send  him  some  as  long  as  he  had  none.  What 
did  money  matter?  He  had  written  to  her!  And  she 
ran,  weeping  for  joy,  to  show  this  letter  to  the  baron. 
Aunt  Lison  was  called  and  read  over  word  by  word  this 
paper  that  told  of  him.    They  discussed  each  sentence. 

Jeanne,  jumping  from  the  most  complete  despair  to  a 
kind  of  intoxication  of  hope,  took  Paul's  part.  "He  will 
come  back,  he  will  come  back  as  he  has  written." 

The  baron,  more  calm,  said:  "All  the  same  he  left  us 
for  that  creature,  so  he  must  love  her  better  than  us,  as 
he  did  not  hesitate  about  it." 

A  sudden  and  frightful  pang  struck  Jeanne's  heart,  and 
immediately  she  was  filled  with  hatred  of  this  woman  who 
had  stolen  her  son  from  her,  an  unappeasable,  savage 
hate,  the  hatred  of  a  jealous  mother.  Until  now  all  her 
thoughts  had  been  given 4o  Paul.  She  scarcely  took  into 
consideration  that  a  girl  had  been  the  cause  of  his  va- 
garies. But  the  baron's  words  had  suddenly  brought  be- 
fore her  this  rival,  had  revealed  her  fatal  power,  and  she 
felt  that  between  herself  and  this  woman  a  struggle  was 
about  to  begin,  and  she  also  felt  that  she  would  rather 
lose  her  son  than  share  his  affection  with  another.  And 
all  her  joy  was  at  an  end. 

They  sent  him  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  and  heard 
nothing  more  from  him  for  five  months. 

Then  a  business  man  came  to  settle  the  details  of  Julien's 
inheritance.     Jeanne  and  the  baron  handed  over  the  ac- 


UNE  VIE  155 

counts  without  any  discussion,  even  giving  up  the  interest 
that  should  come  to  his  mother.  When  Paul  came  back 
to  Paris  he  had  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  francs. 
He  then  wTote  four  letters  in  six  months,  giving  his  news 
in  concise  terms  and  ending  the  letters  with  coldly  affec- 
tionate expressions.  "I  am  working,"  he  said;  "I  have 
obtained  a  position  on  the  stock  exchange.  I  hope  to  go 
and  embrace  you  at  'The  Poplars'  some  day,  my  dear 
parents." 

He  did  not  mention  his  companion,  and  this  silence  im- 
plied more  than  if  he  had  filled  four  pages  with  news  of 
her.  Jeanne,  in  these  cold  letters,  felt  this  woman  in 
ambush,  the  implacable,  eternal  enemy  of  mothers,  the 
courtesan. 

The  three  lonely  beings  discussed  the  best  plan  to  fol- 
low in  order  to  rescue  Paul,  but  could  decide  on  nothing. 
A  voyage  to  Paris?    What  good  would  it  do? 

"Let  his  passion  exhaust  itself.  He  will  come  back 
then  of  his  own.  accord,"  said  the  baron. 

Some  time  passed  without  any  further  news.  But  one 
morning  they  were  terrified  at  the  receipt  of  a  despairing 
letter: 


"My  Poor  Mamma:  I  am  lost.  There  is  nothing 
left  for  me  to  do  but  to  blow  out  my  brains  unless 
you  come  to  my  aid.  A  speculation  that  gave  every 
prospect  of  success  has  fallen  through,  and  I  am 
eighty-five  thousand  dollars  in  debt.  I  shall  be  dis- 
honored if  I  do  not  pay  up — ruined — and  it  will 
henceforth  be  impossible  for  rre  to  do  anything.  I 
am  lost.  I  repeat  tliat  I  would  rather  blow  out  my 
brains  than  undergo  this  disgrace.  I  should  have 
done  so  already,  probably,  but  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  a  w^oman  of  whom  I  never  speak  to  you, 
and  who  is  my  providence. 


154  UNE  VIE 

"I  embrace  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  my 
dear  mamma — perhaps  for  the 'last  time.     Good-by. 

"Paul." 

A  package  of  business  papers  accompanying  the  letter 
gave  the  details  of  the  failure. 

The  baron  answered  by  return  mail  that  they  would 
see  what  could  be  done.  Then  he  set  out  for  Havre  to 
get  advice  and  he  mortgaged  some  property  to  raise  the 
money  which  v*^as  sent  to  Paul. 

The  young  man  wrote  three  letters  full  of  the  most 
heartfelt  thanks  and  passionate  affection,  saying  he  was 
coming  home  at  once  to  see  his  dear  parents. 

But  he  did  not  come. 

A  whole  year  passed.  Jeanne  and  the  baron  were  about 
to  set  out  for  Paris  to  try  and  make  a  last  effort,  when 
they  received  a  line  to  say  that  he  was  in  London  again, 
setting  an  enterprise  on  foot  in  connection  with  steam- 
boats under  the  name  of  "Paul  de  Lamare  &  Co."  He 
wrote:  "This  will  give  me  an  assured  fortune,  and  perhaps 
great  wealth,  and  I  am  risking  nothing.  You  can  see  at 
once  what  a  splendid  thing  it  is.  When  I  see  you  again  I 
shall  have  a  fine  position  in  society.  There  is  nothing  but 
business  these  days  to  help  you  out  of  difficulties." 

Three  months  later  th^  steamboat  compainy  failed  and 
the  manager  was  being  sought  for  on  account  of  certain 
irregularities  in  business  methods.  Jeanne  had  a  nervous 
attack  that  lasted  several  hours  and  then  she  took  to  her 
bed. 

The  baron  again  went  to  Havre  to  make  inquiries,  saw 
some  lawyers,  some  business  men,  some  solicitors  and 
bailiffs  and  found  that  the  liabiHties  of  the  De  Lamare  con- 
cern were  two  hundred  and  thirty-five  thousand  francs, 
and  he  once  more  mortgaged  some  property.  The  chateau 
of  "The  Poplars"  and  the  two  farms  and  all  that  went 
with  them  were  mortgaged  for  a  large  sum. 


UNE  VIE  155 

One  evening  as  he  was  arranging  the  final  details  in 
the  office  of  a  business  man,  he  fell  over  on  the  floor 
with  a  stroke  of  apoplexy. 

A  man  was  sent  on  horseback  to  notify  Jeanne,  but 
when  she  arrived  he  was  dead. 

She  took  his  body  back  to  "The  Poplars,"  so  overcome 
that  her  grief  was  numbness  rather  than  despair. 

Abbe  Tolbiac  refused  to  permit  the  body  to  be  brought 
to  the  church,  despite  the  distracted  entreaties  of  the  two 
women.  The  baron  was  interred  at  twilight  without  any 
religious  ceremony. 

Paul  learned  of  the  event  through  one  of  the  men  who 
was  settling  up  his  affairs.  He  was  still  in  hiding  in  Eng- 
land. He  wrote  to  make  excuses  for  not  having  come 
home,  saying  that  he  learned  of  his  grandfather's  death 
too  late.  "However,  now  that  you  have  helped  me  out  of 
my  difficulties,  my  dear  mamma,  I  shall  go  back  to  France 
and  hope  to  embrace  you  soon." 

Jeanne  was  so  crushed  in  spirit  that  she  appeared  not 
to  understand  anything.  Toward  the  end  of  the  winter 
Aunt  Lison,  who  was  now  sixty-eight,  had  an  attack  of 
bronchitis  that  developed  into  pneumonia,  and  she  died 
quietly,  murmuring  with  her  last  breath:  "My  poor  little 
Jeanne,  I  will  ask  God  to  take  pity  on  you." 

Jeanne  followed  her  to  the  grave,  and  as  the  earth  fell 
on  her  coffin  she  sank  to  the  ground,  v.ishing  that  she 
might  die  also,  so  as  not  to  suffer,  to  think.  A  strong 
peasant  woman  lifted  her  up  and  carried  her  away  as  if 
she  had  been  a  child. 

When  she  reached  the  chateau  Jeanne,  who  had  spent 
the  last  five  nights  at  Aunt  Lison 's  bedside,  allowed  her- 
self to  be  put  to  bed  without  resistance  by  this  unloiown 
peasant  woman,  \a^o  handled  her  with  gentleness  and 
firmness,  and  she  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion,  overcome 
with  weariness  and  suffering. 

She  awoke  about  the  middle  of  the  night.    A  night  light 


156  UNE  VIE 

was  burning  on  the  mantelpiece.  A  woman  was  asleep 
in  her  easy  chair.  Who  was  this 'woman?  She  did  not 
recognize  her,  and  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  bed,  she 
sought  to  examine  her  features  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
wick  floating  in  oil  in  a  tumbler  of  water. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  seen  this  face.  But  when, 
but  where?  The  woman  was  sleeping  peacefully,  her 
head  to  one  side  and  her  cap  on  the  floor.  She  might  be 
about  forty  or  forty-five.  She  was  stout,  with  a  high 
color,  squarely  built  and  powerful.  Her  large  hands  hung 
down  at  either  side  of  the  chair.  Her  hair  was  turning 
gray.  Jeanne  looked  at  her  fixedly,  her  mind  in  the  dis- 
turbed condition  of  one  awakening  from  a  feverish  sleep 
after  a  great  sorrow. 

She  had  certainly  seen  this  face!  Was  it  in  former 
days?  Was  it  of  late  years?  She  could  not  tell,  and  the 
idea  distressed  her,  upset  her  nerves.  She  rose  noiselessly 
to  take  another  look  at  the  sleeping  woman,  walking  over 
on  tiptoe.  It  was  the  woman  who  had  lifted  her  up  in 
the  cemetery  and  then  put  her  to  bed.  She  remembered 
this  confusedly. 

But  had  she  met  her  elsewhere  at  some  other  time  of 
her  life  or  did  she  only  imagine  she  recognized  her  amid 
the  confused  recollections  of  the  day  before?  And  how 
did  she  come  to  be  there  4n  her  room  and  why? 

The  woman  opened  her  eyes  and,  seeing  Jeanne,  she 
rose  to  her  feet  suddenly.  They  stood  face  to  face,  so 
close  that  they  touched  one  another.  The  stranger  said 
crossly:  "What!  are  you  up?  You  wifl  be  ill,  getting 
up  at  this  time  of  night.    Go  back  to  bed!" 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Jeanne. 

But  the  woman,  opening  her  arms,  picked  her  up  and 
carried  her  back  to  her  bed  with  the  strength  of  a  man. 
And  as  she  laid  her  do"\vn  gently  and  drew  the  covers 
over  her,  she  leaned  over  close  to  Jeanne  and,  weeping 
as  she  did  so,  she  kissed  her  passionately  on  the  cheeks, 


UNE  VIE  157 

her  hair,  her  eyes,  the  tears  falling  on  her  face  as  she 
stammered  out:  "My  poor  mistress,  Mam'zelle  Jeanne, 
my  poor  mistress,  don't  you  recognize  me?" 

"Rosalie,  my  girl!"  cried  Jeanne,  throwing  her  arms 
round  her  neck  and  hugging  her  as  she  kissed  her,  and 
they  sobbed  together,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

Rosalie  was  the  first  to  regain  her  calmness.  "Come,'^ 
she  said,  "you  must  be  sensible  and  not  catch  cold."  And 
she  covered  her  up  warm  and  straightened  the  pillow  under 
her  former  mistress'  head.  The  latter  continued  to  sob, 
trembling  all  over  at  the  recollections  that  were  awakened 
in  her  mind.  She  finally  inquired:  "How  did  you  come 
back,  my  poor  girl?" 

"Pardi!  do  you  suppose  I  was  going  to  leave  you  all 
alone  like  that,  now?"  replied  Rosalie. 

"Light  a  candle,  so  I  may  see  you,"  said  Jeanne.  And 
when  the  candle  was  brought  to  the  beds' de  they  looked 
at  each  other  for  some  time  without  speaking  a  word. 
Then  Jeanne,  holding  out  her  hand  to  her  former  maid, 
murmured:  "I  should  not  have  recognized  you,  my  girl, 
you  have  changed  greatly;  did  you  know  it?  But  not  as 
much  as  I  have."  And  Rosalie,  looking  at  the  white- 
haired  woman,  thin  and  faded,  whom  she  had  left  a  beauti- 
ful and  fresh  young  woman,  said:  "That  is  true,  you  have 
changed,  Madame  Jeanne,  and  more  than  you  should. 
But  remember,  however,  that  we  have  not  seen  each  other 
for  twenty-five  years." 

They  were  silent,  thinking  over  the  past.  At  length 
Jeanne  said  hesitatingly:  "Have  you  been  happy?" 

Rosalie,  fearful  of  awakening  certain  painful  souvenirs, 
stammered  out :  "Why — yes — yes — madame.  I  have  noth- 
ing much  to  complain  of.  I  have  been  happier  than  you 
have — that  is  sure.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  always 
weighed  on  my  heart,  and  that  was  that  I  did  not  stay 
here "  And  she  stopped  suddenly,  sorry  she  had  re- 
ferred to  that  unintentionally.    But  Jeanne  replied  gently: 


158  UNE  VIE 

"How  could  you  help  it,  my  girl?  One  cannot  always  do 
as  one  wishes.  You  are  a  widow  now,  also,  are  you  not?" 
Then  her  voice  trembled  with  emotion  as  she  said:  "Have 
you  other — other  children?" 

"No,  madame." 

"And  he — your — your  boy — what  has  become  of  him? 
Has  he  turned  out  well?" 

"Yes,  madame,  he  is  a  good  boy  and  works  indus- 
triously. He  has  been  married  for  six  months,  and  he  can 
take  my  farm  now,  since  I  have  come  back  to  you." 

Jeanne  murmured  in  a  trembling  voice:  "Then  you  will 
never  leave  me  again,  my  girl?" 

"No,  indeed,  madame,  I  have  arranged  all  that." 

Jeanne,  in  spite  of  herself,  began  to  compare  their  lives, 
but  without  any  bitterness,  for  she  was  now  resigned  to 
the  unjust  cruelty  of  fate.  She  said:  "And  your  husband, 
how  did  he  treat  you?" 

"Oh,  he  was  a  good  man,  madame,  and  not  lazy;  he 
knew  how  to  make  money.     He  died  of  consumption." 

Then  Jeanne,  sitting  up  in  bed,  filled  with  a  longing 
to  know  more,  said:  "Come,  tell  me  everything,  my  girl, 
all  about  your  life.    It  will  do  me  good  just  now." 

Rosalie,  drawing  up  her  chair,  began  to  tell  about  her- 
self, her  home,  her  people,  entering  into  those  minute 
details  dear  to  country  people,  describing  her  yard,  laugh- 
ing at  some  old  recollection  that  reminded  her  of  good 
times  she  had  had,  and  raising  her  voice  by  degrees  like 
a  farmer's  wife  accustomed  to  command.  She  ended  by 
saying:  "Oh,  I  am  well  off  now.  I  don't  have  to  worry." 
Then  she  became  confused  again,  and  said  in  a  lower 
tone:  "It  is  to  you  that  I  owe  it,  anyhow;  and  you  know 
I  do  not  want  any  wages.  No,  indeed !  No,  indeed !  And 
if  you  will  not  have  it  so,  I  will  go." 

Jeanne  replied:  "You  do  not  mean  that  you  are  going 
to  serve  me  for  nothing?" 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,  madame.     Money!     You  give  me 


UNE  VIE  159 

money!  Why,  I  have  almost  as  much  as  you.  Do  you 
know  what  is  left  to  you  with  all  your  jumble  of  mort- 
gages and  borrowing,  and  interests  unpaid  which  are 
mounting  up  every  year?  Do  you  know?  No,  is  it  not 
so?  Well,  then,  I  can  promise  you  that  you  have  not 
even  ten  thousand  francs  income.  Not  ten  thousand,  do 
you  understand?  But  I  will  settle  all  that  for  you,  and 
very  quickly." 

She  had  begun  talking  loud  again,  carried  away  in  her 
indignation  at  these  interests  left  unpaid,  at  this  threaten- 
ing ruin.  And  as  a  faint,  tender  smile  passed  over  the 
face  of  her  mistress,  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  annoyance: 
''You  must  not  laugh,  madame,  for  without  money  we 
are  nothing  but  laborers." 

Jeanne  took  hold  of  her  hands  and  kept  them  in  her 
own;  then  she  said  slowly,  still  full  of  the  idea  that 
haunted  her:  "Oh,  I  have  had  no  luck.  Everything  has 
gone  against  me.    Fate  has  a  grudge  against  my  life." 

But  Rosalie  shook  her  head:  "You  must  not  say  that, 
madame.  You  married  badly,  that's  all.  One  should  not 
marry  like  that,  anyway,  without  kno^ving  anything  about 
one's  intended." 

And  they  went  on  talking  about  themselves  just  as  two 
old  friends  might  have  done. 

The  sun  rose  while  they  were  still  talking. 


CHAPTER  XII 


A   NEW   HOME 


In  a  week's  time  Rosalie  had  taken  absolute  control 
of  everything  and  everyone  in  the  chateau.  Jeanne  was 
quite  resigned  and  obeyed  passively.  Weak  and  dragging 
her  feet  as  she  walked,  as  little  mother  had  formerly  done, 
she  went  out  walking  leaning  on  Rosalie's  arm,  the  latter 
lecturing  her  and  consoling  her  with  abrupt  and  tender 
words  as  they  walked  slowly  along,  treating  her  mistress  as 
though  she  were  a  sick  child. 

They  always  talked  of  bygone  days,  Jeanne  with  tears 
in  her  throat,  and  Rosalie  in  the  quiet  tone  of  a  phlegmatic 
peasant.  The  servant  kept  referring  to  the  subject  of 
unpaid  interests;  and  at  last  requested  Jeanne  to  give 
her  up  all  the  business  papers  that  Jeanne,  in  her  ignorance 
of  money  matters,  was  hiding  from  her,  out  of  consider- 
ation for  her  son. 

After  that,  for  a  week,  Rosalie  went  to  Fecamp  every 
day  to  have  matters  explained  to  her  by  a  lawyer  whom 
she  knew. 

One  evening,  after  having  put  her  mistress  to  bed,  she 
sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  said  abruptly:  "New  that 
you  are  settled  quietly,  madame,  we  will  have  a  chat." 
And  she  told  her  exactly  how  matters  stood. 

Wlien  everything  was  settled,  there  would  be  about 
seven  thousand  francs  of  income  left,  no  more. 

"We  cannot  help  it,  my  girl,"  said  Jeanne.    "I  feel  that 

1 60 


UNE  VIE  i6i 

I  shall  not  make  old  bones,  and  there  will  be  quite  enough 
for  me." 

But  Rosalie  was  annoyed:  "For  you,  madame,  it  might 
be;  but  M.  Paul — will  you  leave  nothing  for  him?" 

Jeanne  shuddered.  "I  beg  you  not  to  mention  him 
again.    It  hurts  me  too  much  to  think  about  him." 

"But  I  wish  to  speak  about  him,  because  you  see  you 
are  not  brave,  Madame  Jeanne.  He  does  foolish  things. 
Well!  what  of  it?  He  will  not  do  so  always;  and  then 
he  will  marry  and  have  children.  He  will  need  money  to 
bring  them  up.  Pay  attention  to  me:  you  must  sell  'The 
Poplars.'  " 

Jeanne  sprang  up  in  a  sitting  posture.  "Sell  'The  Pop- 
lars'!    Do  you  mean  it?    Oh,  never,  never!" 

But  Rosalie  was  not  disturbed.  "I  tell  you  that  you 
will  sell  the  place,  madame,  because  it  must  be  done." 
And  then  she  explained  her  calculations,  her  plans,  her 
reasons. 

Once  they  had  sold  "The  Poplars"  and  the  two  farms 
belonging  to  it  to  a  buyer  whom  she  had  found,  they 
would  keep  four  farms  situated  at  St.  Leonard,  which,  free 
of  all  mortgage,  would  bring  in  an  income  of  eight  thou- 
sand three  hundred  francs.  They  would  set  aside  thirteen 
hundred  francs  a  year  for  repairs  and  for  the  upkeep  of 
the  property;  there  would  then  remain  seven  thousand 
francs,  five  thousand  of  which  would  cover  the  annual 
expenditures  and  the  other  two  thousand  would  be  put 
away  for  a  rainy  day. 

She  added:  "All  the  rest  has  been  squandered;  there  is 
an  end  of  it.  And  then  I  am  to  keep  the  key,  you  under- 
stand. As  for  M.  Paul,  he  will  have  nothing  left,  nothing; 
he  would  take  your  last  sou  from  you." 

Jeanne,  who  was  weeping  silently,  murmured: 

"But  if  he  has  nothing  to  eat?" 

"He  can  come  and  eat  with  us  if  he  is  hungrv.  There 
will  always  be  a  bed  and  some  stew  for  him.     Do  vou 


i62  UNE  VIE 

believe  he  would  have  acted  as  he  has  done  if  you  had 
not  given  him  a  sou  in  the  first  place?" 

"But  he  was  in  debt,  he  would  have  been  dis- 
graced." 

"When  you  have  nothing  left,  will  that  prevent  him 
from  making  fresh  debts?  You  have  paid  his  debts,  that 
is  all  right;  but  you  will  not  pay  any  more;  it  is  I  who  am 
telling  you  this.     Now  good-night,  madame." 

And  she  left  the  room. 

Jeanne  did  not  sleep,  she  was  so  upset  at  the  idea  of 
selling  "The  Poplars,"  of  going  away,  of  leaving  this 
house  to  which  all  her  life  was  linked. ' 

When  Rosalie  came  into  the  room  next  morning  she 
said  to  her:  "My  poor  girl,  I  never  could  make  up  my 
mind  to  go  away  from  here." 

But  the  servant  grew  angry:  "It  will  have  to  be,  how- 
ever, madame;  the  lawyer  will  soon  be  here  with  the  man 
who  wants  to  buy  the  chateau.  Otherwise,  in  four  years 
you  will  not  have  a  rap  left." 

Jeanne  was  crushed,  and  repeated:  "I  could  not  do  it; 
I  never  could." 

An  hour  later  the  postman  brought  her  a  letter  from 
Paul  asking  for  ten  thousand  francs.  What  should  she 
do?  At  her  wit's  end,  she  consulted  Rosalie,  Who  threw 
up  her  hands,  exclaiming:  "What  was  I  telling  you. 
madame?  Ah!  You  would  have  been  in  a  nice  fix,  both 
of  you,  if  I  had  not  come  back."  And  Jeanne,  bending  to 
her  servant's  will,  wrote  as  follows  to  the  young  man: 


"My  Dear  Son:  I  can  do  nothing  more  for  you. 
You  have  ruined  me;  I  am  even  obliged  to  sell  'The 
Poplars.'  But  never  forget  that  I  shall  always  have 
a  home  whenever  you  want  to  seek  shelter  with  your 
old  mother,  to  whom  you  have  caused  much  suffer- 
ing. Jeanne." 


UNE  VIE  163 

When  the  notary  arrived  with  M.  Jeoffrin,  a  retired 
sugar  refiner,  she  received  them  herself,  and  invited  them 
to  look  over  the  chateau. 

A  month  later,  she  signed  a  deed  of  sale,  and  also  bought 
herself  a  little  cottage  in  the  neighborhood  of  Goderville, 
on  the  high  road  to  Montiviliers,  in  the  hamlet  of  Batte- 
ville. 

Then  she  walked  up  and  down  all  alone  until  evening, 
in  little  mother's  avenue,  with  a  sore  heart  and  troubled 
mind,  bidding  distracted  and  sobbing  farewells  to  the 
landscape,  the  trees,  the  rustic  bench  under  the  plane  tree, 
to  all  those  things  she  knew  so  well  and  that  seemed  to 
have  become  part  of  her  vision  and  her  soul,  the  grove, 
the  mound  overlooking  the  plain,  where  she  had  so  often 
sat,  and  from  ^\^ere  she  had  seen  the  Comte  de  Fourville 
running  toward  the  sea  on  that  terrible  day  of  Julien's 
death,  to  an  old  elm  whose  upper  branches  were  missing, 
against  which  she  had  often  leaned,  and  to  all  this  fa- 
miliar garden  spot. 

Rosalie  came  out  and  took  her  by  the  arm  to  make 
her  come  into  the  house. 

A  tall  young  peasant  of  twenty-five  was  waiting  outside 
the  door.  He  greeted  her  in  a  friendly  manner  as  if  he 
had  known  her  for  some  time:  "Good-morning,  Madame 
Jeanne.  I  hope  you  are  well.  Mother  told  me  to  come 
and  help  you  move.  I  would  like  to  know  what  you  are 
going  ^o  take  away,  seeing  that  I  shall  do  it  from  time  to 
time  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  my  farm  work." 

It  was  her  maid's  son,  Julien's  son,  Paul's  brother. 

She  felt  as  if  her  heart  stopped  beating;  and  yet  she 
would  have  liked  to  embrace  this  young  fellow. 

She  looked  at  him,  trying  to  find  some  resemblance  to 
her  husband  or  to  her  son.  He  \va.s  ruddy,  vigorous,  with 
fair  hair  and  his  mother's  blue  e3^es.  And  yet  he  looked 
like  Julien.     In  what  way?     How?     She  could  not  have 


1 64  UNE  VIE 

told,  but  there  was  something  Uke  him  in  the  whole  makeup 
of  his  face. 

The  young  man  resumed:  "If  you  could  show  me  at 
once,  I  should  be  much  obliged." 

But  she  had  not  yet  decided  what  she  was  going  to 
take  with  her,  as  her  new  home  was  very  small;  and  she 
begged  him  to  come  back  again  at  the  end  of  the  week. 

She  was  now  entirely  occupied  with  getting  ready  to 
move,  which  brought  a  little  variety  into  her  very  dreary 
and  hopeless  life.  She  went  from  room  to  room,  picking 
out  the  furniture  which  recalled  episodes  in  her  life,  old 
friends,  as  it  were,  who  have  a  share  in  our  life  and  almost 
of  our  being,  whom  we  have  known  since  childhood,  and 
to  which  are  linked  our  happy  or  sad  recollections,  dates 
in  our  history;  silent  companions  of  our  sad  or  sombre 
hours,  who  have  grown  old  and  become  worn  at  our  side, 
their  covers  torn  in  places,  their  joints  shaky,  their  color 
faded. 

She  selected  them,  one  by  one,  sometimes  hesitating 
and  troubled,  as  if  she  were  taking  some  important  step, 
changing  her  mind  every  instant,  weighing  the  merits  of 
two  easy  chairs  or  of  some  old  writing-desk  and  an  old 
work  table. 

She  opened  the  drawers,  sought  to  recall  things;  then, 
when  she  had  said  to  herself,  "Yes,  I  will  take  this,"  the 
article  was  taken  down  into  the  dining-room. 

She  wished  to  keep  all  the  furniture  of  her  room,  her 
bed,  her  tapestries,  her  clock,  everything. 

She  took  away  some  of  the  parlor  chairs,  those  that  she 
had  loved  as  a  little  child;  the  fox  and  the  stork,  the  fox 
and  the  crow,  the  ant  and  the  grasshopper,  and  the  mel- 
ancholy heron. 

Then,  while  wandering  about  in  all  the  comers  of  this 
dwelling  she  was  going  to  forsake,  she  went  one  day  up 
into  the  loft,  where  she  was  filled  with  amazement;  it 
was  a  chaos  of  articles  of  every  kind,  some  broken,  others 


UNE  VIE      •  165 

tarnished  only,  others  taken  up  there  for  no  special  reason 
probably,  except  that  they  were  tired  of  them  or  that 
they  had  been  replaced  by  others.  She  saw  numberless 
knick-knacks  that  she  remembered,  and  that  had  disap- 
peared suddenly,  trifles  that  she  had  handled,  those  old 
little  insignificant  articles  that  she  had  seen  every  day 
without  noticing,  but  which  now,  discovered  in  this  loft, 
assumed  an  importance  as  of  forgotten  relics,  of  friends 
that  she  had  found  again. 

She  went  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  with  a  little 
pang,  saying:  "WTiy,  it  was  I  who  broke  that  china  cup 
a  few  evenings  before  my  wedding.  Ah !  there  is  mother's 
little  lantern  and  a  cane  that  little  father  broke  in  trying 
to  open  the  gate  when  the  wood  was  swollen  with  the 
rain." 

There  were  also  a  number  of  things  that  she  did  not 
remem.ber  that  had  belonged  to  her  grandparents  or  to 
their  parents,  dusty  things  that  appeared  to  be  exiled  in 
a  period  that  is  not  their  own,  and  that  looked  sad  at  their 
abandonment,  and  whose  history,  whose  experiences  no 
one  knows,  for  they  never  saw  those  who  chose  them, 
bought  them,  owned  them,  and  loved  them;  never  knew 
the  hands  that  had  touched  them  familiarly,  and  the  eyes 
that  looked  at  them  with  delight. 

Jeanne  examined  carefully  three-legged  chairs  to  see  if 
they  recalled  any  memories,  a  copper  warming  pan,  a 
damaged  foot  stove  that  she  thought  she  remembered,  and 
a  number  of  housekeeping  utensils  unfit  for  use. 

She  then  put  together  all  the  things  she  \\^shed  to  take, 

and  going  do\\Tistairs,  sent  Rosalie  up  to  get  them.    The 

servant  indignantly  refused  to  bring  down  "that  rubbish." 

'  But  Jeanne,  who  had  not  much  will  left,  held  her  own 

this  time,  and  had  to  be  obeyed. 

One  morning  the  young  farmer,  Julien's  son,  Denis 
Lecoq,  came  with  his  wagon  for  the  first  load.     Rosalie 


1 66  UNE  VIE 

went  back  with  him  in  order  to  superintend  the  unloading 
and  placing  of  furniture  where  it  "was  to  stand. 

Rosalie  had  come  back  and  was  waiti  -g  for  Jeanne, 
who  had  been  out  on  the  cliff.  She  was  enchanted  with 
the  new  house,  declaring  it  was  much  more  cheerful  than 
this  old  box  of  a  building,  which  was  not  even  on  the  side 
of  the  road. 

Jeanne  wept  all  the  evening. 

Ever  since  they  heard  that  the  chateau  was  sold,  the 
farmers  were  not  more  civil  to  her  than  necessary,  calling 
her  among  themselves  ''the  crazy  woman,"  without  know- 
ing exactly  why,  but  doubtless  because  they  guessed  with 
their  animal  instinct  at  her  morbid  and  increasing  senti- 
mentality, at  all  the  disturbance  of  her  poor  mind  that 
had  undergone  so  much  sorrow. 

The  night  before  they  left  she  chanced  to  go  into  the 
stable.  A  growl  made  her  start.  It  was  Massacre,  whom 
she  had  hardly  thought  of  for  months.  Blind  and  para- 
lyzed, having  reached  a  great  age  for  an  animal,  he  ex- 
isted in  a  straw  bed,  taken  care  of  by  Ludivine,  who  never 
forgot  him.  She  took  him  in  her  arms,  kissed  him,  and 
carried  him  into  the  house.  As  big  as  a  barrel,  he  could 
scarcely  carry  himself  along  on  his  stiff  legs,  and  he  barked 
like  the  wooden  dogs  that  one  gives  to  children. 

The  day  of  departures  finally  came.  Jeanne  had  slept 
in  Julien's  old  room,  as  hers  was  dismantled.  She  got  up 
exhausted  and  short  of  breath  as  if  she  had  been  running. 
The  carriage  containing  the  trunks  and  the  rest  of  the 
furniture  was  in  the  yard  ready  to  start.  Another  two- 
wheeled  vehicle  was  to  take  Jeanne  and  the  ser\^ant.  Old 
Simon  and  Ludivine  were  to  stay  until  the  arrival  of  a  new 
proprietor,  and  then  to  go  to  some  of  their  relations,  Jeanne 
having  provided  a  little  income  for  them.  They  had  also 
saved  up  some  money,  and  being  nov/  very  old  and  garru- 
lous, they  were  not  of  much  use  in  the  house.  Marius 
had, long  since  married  and  left. 


UNE  VIE  167 

About  eight  o'clock  it  began  to  rain,  a  fine  icy  rain, 
driven  by  a  light  breeze.  On  the  kitchen  table  some  cups 
of  cafe  au  lait  were  steaming.  Jeanne  sat  down  and 
sipped  hers,  then  rising,  she  said,  "Come  along." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  w^hile  Rosalie  was 
putting  on  her  overshoes,  she  said  in  a  choking  voice:  "Do 
you  remember,  my  girl,  how  it  rained  when  we  left  Rouen 
to  come  here?" 

As  she  said  this,  she  put  her  two  hands  to  her  breast 
and  fell  over  on  her  back,  unconscious.  She  remained 
thus  over  an  hour,  apparently  dead.  Then  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  was  seized  with  convulsions  accompanied  by 
floods  of  tears. 

WTien  she  was  a  little  calmer  she  was  so  weak  that  she 
could  not  stand  up,  and  Rosalie,  fearing  another  attack 
if  they  delayed  their  departure,  w^ent  to  look  for  her  son. 
They  took  her  up  and  carried  her  to  the  carriage,  placed 
her  on  the  wooden  bench  covered  with  leather ;  and  the  old 
servant  got  in  beside  her,  wrapped  her  up  \^ith  a  big 
cloak,  and  holding  an  umbrella  over  her  head,  cried: 
"Quick,  Denis,  let  us  be  off."  The  young  man  climbed 
up  beside  his  mother  and  \\iiipped  up  the  horse,  whose 
jerky  pace  made  the  two  women  bounce  about  vigorously. 

As  they  turned  the  comer  to  enter  the  village,  they  saw 
some  one  stalking  along  the  road;  it  was  Abbe  Tolbiac, 
who  seemed  to  be  watching  for  them  to  go  by.  He  stopped 
to  let  the  carriage  pass.  He  was  holding  up  his  cassock 
with  one  hand,  to  keep  it  out  of  the  mud,  and  his  thin 
legs,  encased  in  black  stockings,  ended  in  a  pair  of  enor- 
mous muddy  shoes. 

Jeanne  lowered  her  eyes  so  as  not  to  meet  his  glance, 
and  Rosalie,  who  had  heard  all  about  him,  flew  into  a 
rage.  "Peasant!  Peasant  I"  she  murmured;  and  then 
seizing  her  son's  hand:  "Give  him  a  good  slash  with  the 
whip." 

But  the  young  man,   just  as  they  were  passing  the 


1 68  '  UNE  VIE 

priest,  made  the  wheel  of  the  wagon,  which  was  going  at 
full  speed,  sink  into  a  rut,  splashing  the  abbe  with  mud 
from  head  to  foot. 

Rosalie  was  delighted  and  turned  round  to  shake  her 
fist  at  him,  while  the  priest  was  wiping  off  the  mud  with 
his  big  handkerchief. 

All  at  once  Jeanne  exclaimed:  "We  have  forgotten 
Massacre!"  They  stopped,  and,  getting  down,  Denis  ran 
to  fetch  the  dog,  while  Rosalie  held  the  reins.  He  pres- 
ently reappeared,  carrying  in  his  arms  Ihe  shapeless  and 
crippled  animal,  which  he  placed  at  the  feet  of  the  two 
women. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JEANNE    IN    PARIS 

Two  hours  later  the  carriage  stopped  at  a  Httle  brick 
house  built  in  the  middle  of  a  lot  planted  with  pear  trees 
at  the  side  of  the  high  road. 

Four  trellised  arbors  covered  with  honeysuckle  and 
clematis  formed  the  four  corners  of  the  garden,  which  was 
divided  into  little  beds  of  vegetables  separated  by  narrow 
paths  bordered  with  fruit  trees. 

k  very  high  box  hedge  enclosed  the  whole  property, 
which  was  separated  by  a  field  from  the  neighboring  farm. 
There  was  a  blacksmith's  shop  about  a  hundred  feet  fur- 
ther along  the  road.  There  w^ere  no  other  houses  within 
three-quarters  of  a  mile. 

The  house  commanded  a  view  of  the  level  district  of 
Caux,  covered  with  farms  surrounded  by  their  double  rows 
of  tall  trees  w^hich  enclosed  the  courtyard  planted  with 
apple  trees. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  the  house,  Jeanne  wanted  to 
rest;  but  Rosalie  would  not  allow  her  to  do  so  for  fear 
she  would  begin  to  think  of  the  past. 

The  carpenter  from  Goderville  was  there,  and  they  be- 
gan at  once  to  place  the  furniture  that  had  already  arrived 
w^hile  waiting  for  the  last  load.  This  required  a  good  deal 
of  thought  and  planning. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  wagon  appeared  at  the  gate 
and  had  to  be  unloaded  in  the  rain.    When  night  fell  the 

169 


170*  UNE  VIE 

house  was  in  utter  disorder,  with  things  piled  up  anyhow. 
Jeanne,  tired  out,  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  she  got  into  bed. 

She  had  no  time  to  mourn  for  some  days,  as  there  was 
so  much  to  be  done.  She  even  took  a  certain  pleasure  in 
making  her  new  house  look  pretty,  the  thought  that  her 
son  would  come  back  there  haunting  her  continually.  The 
tapestries  from  her  old  room  were  hung  in  the  dining-room, 
which  also  had  to  serve  as  a  parlor;  and  she  took  special 
pains  with  one  of  the  two  rooms  on  the  first  floor,  which 
she  thought  of  as  "Poulet's  room." 

She  kept  the  other  room  herself,  Rosalie  sleeping  above, 
next  to  the  loft.  The  little  house,  furnished  with  care, 
was  very  pretty,  and  Jeanne  was  happy  there  at  first, 
although  she  seemed  to  lack  something,  but  she  did  not 
know  what. 

One  morning  the  lawyer's  clerk  from  Fecamp  brought 
her  three  thousand  six  hundred  francs,  the  price  of  the 
furniture  left  at  "The  Poplars,"  and  valued  by  an  uphol- 
sterer. She  had  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure  at  receiving  this 
money,  and  as  soon  as  the  man  had  gone,  she  ran  to  put 
on  her  hat,  so  as  to  ge.t  to  Goderville  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible to  send  Paul  this  unexpected  sum. 

But  as  she  was  hurrying  along  the  high  road  she  met 
Rosalie  coming  from  market.  The  servant  suspected 
something,  without  at  once  guessing  the  facts;  and  when 
she  discovered  them,  for  Jeanne  could  hide  nothing  from 
her,  she  placed  her  basket  on  the  ground  that  she  might 
get  angry  with  more  comfort. 

She  began  to  scold  with  her  fists  on  her  hips;  then  tak- 
ing hold  of  her  mistress  with  her  right  arm  and  taking  her 
basket  in  her  left,  and  still  fuming,  she  continued  on  her 
way  to  the  house. 

As  soon  as  they  were  in  the  house  the  servant  asked  to 
have  the  money  handed  over  to  her.  Jeanne  gave  all  but 
six  hundred  francs,  which  she  held  back;  but  Rosalie  soon 
saw  through  her  tricks,  and  she  was  obliged  to  hand  it  all 


UNE  VIE  171 

over.  However,  she  consented  to  her  sending  this  amount 
to  the  young  man. 

A  few  days  later  he  wrote:  "You  have  rendered  me  a 
great  service,  my  dear  mother,  for  we  were  in  the  greatest 
distress." 

Jeanne,  however,  could  not  get  accustomed  to  Batte- 
ville.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  could  not  breathe  as  she 
did  formerly,  that  she  was  more  lonely,  more  deserted, 
more  lost  than  ever.  She  went  out  for  a  walk,  got  as  far 
as  the  hamlet  of  Vemeuil,  came  back  by  the  Trois-Mares, 
came  home,  then  suddenly  wanted  to  start  out  again,  as  if 
she  had  forgotten  to  go  to  the  very  place  she  intended. 

And  every  day  she  did  the  same  thing  without  knowing 
why.  But  one  evening  a  thought  came  to  her  unconsciously 
w'hich  revealed  to  her  the  secret  of  her  restlessness.  She 
said  as  she  was  sitting  down  to  dinner:  "Oh,  how  I  long 
to  see  the  sea!" 

That  was  what  she  had  missed  so  greatly,  the  sea,  her 
big  neighbor  for  twenty-five  years,  the  sea  with  its  salt 
air,  its  rages,  its  scolding  voice,  its  strong  breezes,  the 
sea  which  she  sought  from  her  window  at  "The  Poplars" 
every  morning,  whose  air  she  breathed  day  and  night,  the 
sea  which  she  felt  close  to  her,  which  she  had  taken  to 
loving  unconsciously  as  she  would  a  person. 

Winter  was  approaching,  and  Jeanne  felt  herself  over- 
come by  an  unconquerable  discouragement.  It  was  not 
one  of  those  acute  griefs  which  seemed  to  wring  the  heart, 
but  a  dreary,  mournful  sadness. 

Nothing  roused  her.  No  one  paid  any  attention  to  her. 
The  high  road  before  her  door  stretched  to  right  and  left 
with  hardly  any  passersby.  Occasionally  a  dogcart  passed 
rapidly,  driven  by  a  red-faced  man,  with  his  blouse  puffed 
out  by  the  wind,  making  a  sort  of  blue  balloon;  sometimes 
a  slow-moving  wagon,  or  else  two  peasants,  a  man  and  a 
woman,  who  came  near,  passed  by,  and  disappeared  in 
the  distance. 


172  UNE  VIE 

As  soon  as  the  grass  began  to  grow  again,  a  young  girl 
in  a  short  skirt  passed  by  the  gd,te  every  morning  with 
two  thin  cows  who  browsed  along  the  side  of  the  road. 
She  came  back  every  evening  with  the  same  sleepy  face, 
making  a  step  every  ten  minutes  as  she  walked  behind 
the  animals. 

Jeanne  dreamed  every  night  that  she  was  still  at  ^'The 
Poplars."  She  seemed  to  be  there  with  father  and  little 
mother,  and  sometimes  even  with  Aunt  Lison.  She  did 
over  again  things  forgotten  and  done  with,  thought  she 
was  supporting  Madame  Adelaide  in  her  walk  along  the 
avenue.     And  each  awakening  was  attended  with  tears. 

She  thought  continually  of  Paul,  wondering  what  he 
was  doing — how  he  was — whether  he  sometimes  thought 
of  her.  As  she  walked  slowly  in  the  by-roads  between 
the  farms,  she  thought  over  all  these  things  which  tor- 
mented her,  but  above  all  else,  she  cherished  an  intense 
jealousy  of  the  woman  who  had  stolen  her  son  from  her. 
It  was  this  hatred  alone  which  prevented  her  from  taking 
any  steps,  from  going  to  look  for  him,  to  see  him.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  that  woman  standing  on  the 
doorsill  asking:  "What  do  you  want  here,  madame?" 
Her  mother's  pride  revolted  at  the  possibility  of  such  a 
meeting.  And  her  haughty  pride  of  a  good  woman  whose 
character  is  blameless  made  her  all  the  more  indignant  at 
the  cowardice  of  a  man  subjugated  by  an  unworthy  pas- 
sion. 

When  autumn  resumed  with  its  long  rains,  its  gray 
sky,  its  dark  clouds,  such  a  weariness  of  this  kind  of  life 
came  over  her  that  she  determined  to  make  a  great  effort 
to  get  her  Poulet  back ;  he  must  have  got  over  his  infatu- 
ation by  this  time. 

She  wrote  him  an  imploring  letter: 

''My  Dear  Child:  I  am  going  to  entreat  you  to 
come  back  to  me.    Remember  that  I  am  old  and  deli- 


UNE  VIE  173 

cate,  all  alone  the  whole  year  round  except  for  a 
servant  maid.  I  am  now  living  in  a  little  house  on 
the  main  road.  It  is  very  lonely,  but  if  you  were 
here  all  would  be  different  for  me.  I  have  only  you 
in  the  world,  and  I  have  not  seen  you  for  seven  years! 
You  were  rny  life,  my  dream,  my  only  hope,  my  one 
love,  and  you  failed  me,  you  deserted  me! 

"Oh,  come  back,  my  little  Poulet — come  and  em- 
brace me.  Come  back  to  your  old  mother,  who  holds 
out  her  despairing  arms  towards  you. 

"Jeanne." 

He  replied  a  few  days  later: 

"My  Dear  Mother:  I  would  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  go  and  see  you,  but  I  have  not  a  penny.  Send 
me  some  money  and  I  will  come.  I  wanted,  in  any 
case,  to  see  you  to  talk  to  you  about  a  plan  that  would 
make  it  possible  for  m.e  to  do  as  you  ask. 

"The  disinterestedness  and  love  of  the  one  who  has 
been  my  companion  in  the  dark  days  through  v\rhich 
I  have  passed  can  never  be  forgotten  by  me.  It  is 
not  possible  for  me  to  remain  any  longer  without  pub- 
licly recognizing  her  love  and  her  faithful  devotion. 
She  has  very  pleasing  manners,  which  you  would  ap- 
preciate. She  is  also  educated  and  reads  a  good  deal. 
In  fact,  you  cannot  understand  what  she  has  been  to 
me.  I  should  be  a  brute  if  I  did  not  show  her  my 
gratitude.  I  am  going,  therefore,  to  ask  you  to  give 
me  your  permission  to  marry  her.  You  will  forgive 
all  my  follies  and  we  will  all  live  together  in  your  new 
house. 

"If  you  knew  her  you  would  at  once  give  your 
consent.  I  can  assure  you  that  she  is  perfect  and 
very  distingue.  You  will  love  her,  I  am  sure.  As 
for  me,  I  could  not  live  without  her. 


174  UNE  VIE 

"I  shall  expectyour  reply  with  impatience,  my  dear 
mother,  and  we  both  embrace  you  with  all  our  heart. 

'^Your  son, 
"VicoMTE  Paul  de  Lamare." 

Jeanne  was  crushed.  She  remained  motionless,  tlie 
letter  on  her  lap,  seeing  through  the  cunning  of  this  girl 
who  had  had  such  a  hold  on  her  son  for  so  long,  and  had 
not  let  him  come  to  see  her  once,  biding  her  time  until  the 
despairing  old  mother  could  no  longer  resist  the  desire  to 
clasp  her  son  in  her  arms,  and  would  weaken  and  grant 
all  they  asked. 

And  grief  at  Paul's  persistent  preference  for  this  crea- 
ture wrung  her  heart.  She  said:  "He  does  not  love  me. 
He  does  not  love  me." 

Rosalie  just  then  entered  the  room.  Jeanne  faltered: 
"He  wants  to  marry  her  now." 

The  maid  was  startled.  "Oh,  madame,  you  will  not 
allow  that.    M.  Paul  must  not  pick  up  that  rubbish." 

And  Jeanne,  overcome  with  emotion,  but  indignant, 
replied:  "Never  that,  my  girl.  And  as  he  will  not  come 
here,  I  am  going  to  see  him,  myself,  and  we  shall  see  which 
of  us  will  carry  the  day." 

She  wrote  at  once  to  Paul  to  prepare  him  for  her  visit, 
and  to  arrange  to  meet  him  elsewhere  than  in  the  house 
inhabited  by  that  baggage. 

AVhile  awaiting  a  reply  she  made  her  preparations  for 
departure.  Rosalie  began  to  pack  her  mistress'  clothes 
in  an  old  trunk,  but  as  she  was  folding  a  dress,  one  of 
those  she  had  worn  in  the  country,  she  exclaimed:  "Why, 
you  have  nothing  to  put  on  your  back.  I  will  not  allow 
you  to  go  like  that.  You  would  be  a  disgrace  to  everyone; 
and  the  Parisian  ladies  would  take  you  for  a  servant." 

Jeanne  let  her  have  her  own  way,  and  the  two  women 
went  together  to  Goderville  to  choose  some  material,  which 
was  given  a  dressmaker  in  the  village.     Then  they  went 


UNE  VIE  175 

to  the  lawyer,  M.  Roussel,  who  spent  a  fortnight  in  the 
capital  every  year,  in  order  to  get  some  information;  for 
Jeanne  had  not  been  in  Paris  for  twenty-eight  years. 

He  gave  them  lots  of  advice  on  how  to  avoid  being  run 
over,  on  methods  of  protecting  yourself  from  thieves,  ad- 
vising her  to  sew  her  money  up  inside  the  lining  of  her 
coat,  and  to  keep  in  her  pocket  only  what  she  absolutely 
needed.  He  spoke  at  length  about  moderate  priced  restau- 
rants, and  mentioned  two  or  three  patronized  by  women, 
and  told  them  that  they  might  mention  his  name  at  the 
Hotel  Normandie. 

Jeanne  had  never  yet  seen  the  railroad,  though  trains 
had  been  running  between  Paris  and  Havre  for  six  years, 
and  were  revolutionizing  the  whole  country. 

She  received  no  answer  from  Paul,  although  she  waited 
a  week,  then  two  weeks,  going  every  morning  to  meet  the 
postman,  asking  him  hesitatingly:  "Is  there  anything  for 
me,  Pere  Malandain?"  And  the  man  always  replied  in 
his  hoarse  voice:  "Nothing  again,  my  good  lady." 

It  certainly  must  be  this  woman  who  was  keeping  Paul 
from  writing. 

Jeanne,  therefore,  determined  to  set  out  at  once.  She 
wanted  to  take  Rosalie  with  her,  but  the  maid  refused  for 
fear  of  increasing  the  expense  of  the  journey.  She  did  not 
allow  her  mistress  to  take  more  than  three  hundred  francs, 
saying:  "If  you  need  more  you  can  write  to  me  and  I 
will  go  to  the  lawyer  and  ask  him  to  send  it  to  you.  If  I 
give  you  any  more,  M.  Paul  will  put  it  in  his  pocket." 

One  December  morning  Denis  Lecoq  came  for  them  in 
his  light  wagon  and  took  them  to  the  station.  Jeanne  wept 
as  she  kissed  Rosalie  good-by,  and  got  into  the  train. 
Rosalie  was  also  affected  and  said:  "Good-by,  madame, 
bon  voyage,  and  come  back  soon!" 
"Good-by,  my  girl." 

A  whistle  and  the  train  was  off,  beginning  slowly  and 
gradually  going  ^\ith  a  speed  that  terrified  Jeanne.     In 


176  UNE  VIE 

her  compartment  there  were  two  gentlemen  leaning  back 
in  the  two  corners  of  the  carriage! 

She  looked  at  the  country  as  they  swept  past,  the  trees, 
the  farms,  the  villages,  feeling  herself  carried  into  a  new 
life,  into  a  new  world  that  was  no  longer  the  life  of  .her 
tranquil  youth  and  of  her  present  monotonous  existence. 

She  reached  Paris  that  evening.  A  commissionaire  took 
her  trunk  and  she  followed  him  in  great  fear,  jostled  by 
the  crowd  and  not  knowing  how  to  make  her  way  amid 
this  mass  of  moving  hum-anity,  almost  running  to  keep  up 
with  the  man  for  fear  of  losing  sight  of  him. 

On  reaching  the  hotel  she  said  at  the  desk:  "I  was 
recommended  here  by  M.  Roussel." 

The  proprietress,  an  immense  woman  with  a  serious 
face,  who  was  seated  at  the  desk,  inquired: 

"Who  is  he— M.  Roussel?" 

Jeanne  replied  in  amazement:  "Why,  he  is  the  lawyer 
at  Goderville,  v/ho  stops  here  every  year." 

"That's  very  possible,"  said  the  big  woman,  "but  I  do 
not  know  him.    Do  you  wish  a  room*?"  ^ 

"Yes,  madame." 

A  boy  took  her  satchel  and  led  the  way  upstairs.  She 
felt  a  pang  at  her  heart.  Sitting  down  at  a  little  table  she 
sent  for  some  luncheon,  as  she  had  eaten  nothing  since 
daybreak.  As  she  ate,  she  was  thinking  sadly  of  a  thou- 
sand things,  recalling  her  stay  here  on  the  return  from  'her 
wedding  journey,  and  the  first  indication  of  Julien's  char- 
acter betrayed  while  they  were  in  Paris.  But  she  was 
young  then,  and  confident  and  brave.  Now  she  felt  old, 
embarrassed,  even  timid,  weak  and  disturbed  at  trifles. 
When  she  had  finished  her  luncheon  she  went  over  to  the 
window  and  looked  down  on  the  street  filled  with  people. 
She  wished  to  go  out,  but  was  afraid  to  do  so.  She  would 
surely  get  lost.  She  went  to  bed,  but  the  noise,  the  feel- 
ing of  being  in  a  strange  city,  kept  her  awake.  About  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  just  as  she  was  dozing  off,  she 


UNE  VIE  177 

heard  a  woman  scream  in  an  adjoining  room;  she  sat 
up  in  bed  and  then  she  thought  she  heard  a  man  laugh. 
As  daylight  dawned  the  thought  of  Paul  came  to  her,  and 
she  dressed  herself  before  it  was  light. 

Paul  lived  in  the  Rue  du  Sauvage,  in  the  old  town. 
She  wanted  to  go  there  on  foot  so  as  to  carry  out  Rosalie's 
economical  advice.  The  weather  was  delightful,  the  air 
cold  enough  to  make  her  skin  tingle.  People  were  hur- 
'rying  along  the  sidewalks.  She  walked  as  fast  as  she 
could,  according  to  directions  given  her,  along  a  street, 
at  the  end  of  which  she  was  to  turn  to  the  right  and  then 
to  the  left,  when  she  would  come  to  a  square  where  she 
must  make  fresh  inquiries.  She  did  not  find  the  square, 
and  went  into  a  baker's  to  ask  her  way,  and  he  directed 
her  differently.  She  started  off  again,  went  astray,  in- 
quired her  way  again,  and  finally  got  lost  completely. 

Half  crazy,  she  now  walked  at  random.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  call  a  cab,  when  she  caught  sight  of  the 
Seine.    She  then  walked  along  the  quays-. 

After  about  an  hour  she  found  the  Rue  Sauvage,  a 
sort  of  dark  alley.  She  stopped  at  a  door,  so  overcome 
that  she  could  not  move. 

He  was  there,  in  that  house — Poulet. 

She  felt  her  knees  and  hands  trembling;  but  at  last 
she  entered  the  door,  and  walking  along  a  pasasge,  saw 
the  janitor's  quarters.  She  said,  as  she  held  out  a  piece 
of  money:  "Would  you  go  up  and  tell  M.  Paul  de 
Lamare  that  an  old  lady,  a  friend  of  his  mother's,  is  down- 
stairs, and  \\dshes  to  see  him?" 

"He  does  not  live  here  any  longer,  madame,"  repKed 
the  janitor. 

A  shudder  went  over  her.     She  faltered: 

"Oh!     Where — where  is  he  living  now?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

She  grew  dizzy  as  though  she  were  about  to  fall  over, 
and  stood  there  for  some  moments  without  being  able  to 


178  UNE  VIE 

speak.  At  length,  with  a  great  effort,  she  collected  her 
senses  and  murmured: 

"How  long  is  it  since  he  left?" 

"About  two  weeks  ago.  They  went  off  like  that,  one 
evening,  and  never  came  back.  They  were  in  debt  every- 
where in  the  neighborhood,  so  you  can  understand  that 
they  did  not  care  to  leave  their  address." 

Jeanne  saw  lights  before  her  eyes,  flashes  of  flame, 
as  though  a  gun  had  been  fired  off  in  front  of  her  eyes. 
But  she  had  one  fixed  idea  in  her  mind,  and  that  sustained 
her,  and  kept  her  outwardly  calm  and  rational.  She 
wished  to  find  Poulet  and  know  all  about  him. 

"Then  he  said  nothing  when  he  was  going  away?" 

"Nothing  at  all;  they  ran  off  to  escape  their  debts, 
that's  all." 

"But  he  surely  sends  someone  to  get  his  mail." 

"More  frequently  than  I  send  it.  He  never  got  more 
than  ten  letters  a  year.  I  took  one  up  to  them,  however, 
two  days  before  they  left." 

That  was  probably  her  letter.  She  said  abruptly: 
"Listen!  I  am  his  mother,  his  own  mother,  and  I  have 
come  to  look  for  him.  Here  are  ten  francs  for  you.  If 
you  can  get  any  news  or  any  particulars  about  him,  come 
and  see  me  at  the  Hotel  Normandie,  Rue  du  Havre,  and 
I  will  pay  you  well."     > 

"You  may  count  on  me,  madame,"  he  replied. 

She  left  him  and  began  to  walk  away  without  caring 
whither  she  went.  She  hurried  along  as  thoui^h  she  were 
on  some  important  business,  knocking  up  against  people 
with  packages,  crossing  the  streets  without  paying  atten- 
tion to  the  approaching  vehicles,  and  being  sworn  at  by 
the  drivers,  stumbling  on  the  curb  of  the  sidewalk,  and 
tearing  along  straight  ahead  in  utter  despair. 

All  at  once  she  found  herself  in  a  garden,  and  was  so 
tired  that  she  sat  down  on  a  bench  to  rest.  She  stayed 
there  some  time  apparently,  weeping  without  being  con- 


UNE  VIE  179 

scious  of  it,  for  passersby  stopped  to  look  at  her  Then 
she  felt  very  cold,  and  rose  to  go  on  her  way;  but  her 
legs  would  scarcely  carry  her,  she  was  so  weak  and 
distressed. 

She  wanted  to  go  into  a  restaurant  and  get  a  cup  of 
bouillon,  but  a  sort  of  shame,  of  fear,  of  modesty  at  her 
grief  being  observed  held  her  back.  She  would  pause  at 
the  door,  look  in,  see  all  the  people  sitting  at  table  eating, 
and  would  turn  away,  saying:  "I  will  go  into  the  next 
one."    But  she  had  not  the  courage. 

Finally  she  went  into  a  bakery  and  bought  a  crescent 
and  ate  it  as  she  walked  along.  She  was  very  thirsty,  but 
did  not  know  where  to  go  to  get  something  to  drink,  so 
did  without  it. 

Presently  she  found  herself  in  another  garden  sur- 
rounded by  arcades.  She  recognized  the  Palais  Royal, 
Being  tired  and  warm,  she  sat  down  here  for  an  hour 
or  two. 

A  crowd  of  people  came  in,  a  well-dressed  crowd,  chat- 
ting, smiling,  bowing  to  each  other,  that  happy  crowd  of 
beautiful  women  and  wealthy  men  who  live  only  for  dress 
and  amusement.  Jeanne  felt  bewildered  in  the  midst  of 
this  brilliant  assemblage,  and  got  up  to  make  her  escape. 
But  suddenly  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  might 
meet  Paul  in  this  place;  and  she  began  to  wander  about, 
looking  into  the  faces,  going  and  coming  incessantly  with 
her  quick  step  from  one  end  of  the  garden  to  the  other. 

People  turned  round  to  look  at  her,  others  laughed  as 
they  pointed  her  out.  She  noticed  it  and  fled,  thinking 
that  they  were  doubtless  amused  at  her  appearance  and 
at  her  dress  of  green  plaid,  selected  by  Rosalie,  and  made 
according  to  her  ideas  by  the  dressmaker  at  Goderville. 

She  no  longer  dared  even  to  ask  her  way  of  passersby, 
but  at  last  she  ventured  to  do  so  and  found  her  way  back 
to  the  hotel. 

The  following  day  she  went  to  the  police  department 


i8o  UNE  VIE 

to  ask  them  to  look  for  her  child.  They  could  promise 
her  nothing,  but  said  they  would'  do  all  they  could.  She 
wandered  about  the  streets  hoping  that  she  might  come 
across  him.  And  she  felt  more  alone  in  this  bustling 
crowd,  more  lost,  more  wretched  than  in  the  lonely 
country. 

That  evening  when  she  came  back  to  the  hotel  she  was 
informed  that  a  man  had  come  to  see  her  from  M.  Paul, 
and  that  he  would  come  back  again  the  following  day. 
Her  heart  began  to  beat  violently  and  she  never  closed 
her  eyes  that  night.  If  it  should  be  he!  Yes,  it  assuredly 
was,  although  she  would  not  have  recognized  him  from 
the  description  they  gave  her. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door.  She  cried:  "Come  in!"  ready  to 
throw  herself  into  certain  outstretched  arms.  But  an 
unknown  person  appeared;  and  while  he  excused  himself 
for  disturbing  her,  and  explained  his  business,  which  was 
to  collect  a  debt  of  Paul's,  she  felt  the  tears  beginning  to 
overflow,  and  wiped  them  away  with  her  finger  before 
they  fell  on  her  cheeks. 

He  had  learned  of  her  arrival  through  the  janitor  of 
the  Rue  Sauvage,  and  as  he  could  not  find  the  young 
man,  he  had  come  to  see  his  mother.  He  handed  her  a 
paper,  which  she  took  without  knowing  what  she  was 
doing  and  read  the  figures — ninety  francs — which  she 
paid  without  a  word.,  ^. 

She  did  not  go  out  that  day. 

The  next  day  other  creditors  came.  She  gave  them 
all  that  ^e  had  left  except  twenty  francs  and  then  wrote 
to  Rosalie  to  explain  matters  to  her. 

She  passed  her  days  wandering  about,  waiting  for  Ro- 
salie's answer,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  how  to  kill  the 
melancholy,  interminable  hours,  having  no  one  to  whom 
she  could  say  an  affectionate  word,  no  one  who  knew  her 
sorrow.    She  now  longed  to  return  home  to  her  little  house 


UNE  VIE  i8i 

at  the  side  of  the  lonely  high  road.  A  few  days  before  she 
thought  she  could  not  live  there,  she  was  so  overcome 
with  grief,  and  now  she  felt  that  she  could  never  live 
anjrwhere  else  but  there  where  her  serious  character  had 
been  formed. 

One  evening  the  letter  at  last  came,  enclosing  two  hun- 
dred francs.    Rosalie  wrote: 

"Madame  Jeanne:  Come  back  at  once,  for  I  shall 
not  send  you  any  more.  As  for  M.  Paul,  it  is  I  who 
will  go  and  get  him  when  we  know  where  he  is. 

"With  respect,  your  servant, 

"Rosalie." 

Jeanne  set  out  for  Batteville  one  very  cold   snowy 
morning. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LIGHT    AT    EVENTIDE 

Jeanne  never  went  out  now,  never  stirred  about.  She 
rose  at  the  same  hour  every  day,  looked  out  at  the  weather 
and  then  went  downstairs  and  sat  before  the  parlor  fire. 

She  would  remain  for  days  motionless,  gazing  into  the 
fire,  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular.  It  would  grow 
dark  before  she  stirred,  except  to  put  a  fresh  log  on  the 
fire.  Rosalie  would  then  bring  in  the  lamp  and  exclaim: 
"Come,  Madame  Jeanne,  you  must  stir  about  or  you  will 
have  no  appetite  again  this  evening." 

She  lived  over  the  past,  haunted  by  memories  of  her 
early  life  and  her  wedding  journey  down  yonder  in  Cor- 
sica. Forgotten  landscapes  in  that  isle  now  rose  before 
her  in  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  and  she  recalled  all  the  little 
details,  all  the  little  incidents,  the  faces  she  had  seen  down 
there.  The  head  of  the  guide,  Jean  Ravoli,  haunted  her, 
and  she  sometimes  seemed  to  hear  his  voice. 

Then  she  remembered  the  sweet  years  of  Paul's  child- 
hood, when  they  planted  salad  together  and  when  she 
knelt  in  the  thick  grass  beside  Aunt  Lison,  each  trying 
what  they  could  do  to  please  the  child,  and  her  lips  mur- 
mured: "Poulet,  my  little  Poulet,"  as  though  she  were 
talking  to  him.  Stopping  at  this  word,  she  would  try  to 
trace  it,  letter  by  letter,  in  space,  sometimes  for  hours 
at  a  time,  until  she  became  confused  and  mixed  up  the 

182 


UNE  VIE  1 8 


'> 


letters  and  formed  other  words,  and  she  became  so  nerv- 
ous that  she  was  almost  crazy. 

She  had  all  the  peculiarities  of  those  who  live  a  solitary 
life.    The  least  thing  out  of  its  usual  place  irritated  her. 

Rosalie  often  obliged  her  to  walk  and  took  her  on  the 
high  road,  but  at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  she  declared 
she  could  not  take  another  step  and  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  the  road. 

She  soon  became  averse  to  all  movement  and  stayed 
in  bed  as  late  as  possible.  Since  her  childhood  she  had 
retained  one  custom,  that  of  rising  the  instant  she  had 
drunk  her  cafe  au  lait  in  the  morning.  But  now  she 
would  lie  down  again  and  begin  to  dream,  and  as  she  was 
daily  growing  more  lazy,  Rosalie  would  come  and  oblige 
her  to  get  up  and  almost  force  her  to  get  dressed. 

She  seemed  no  longer  to  have  any  will  power,  and  each 
time  the  maid  asked  her  a  question  or  wanted  her  advice 
or  opinion  she  would  say:  "Do  as  you  think  best,  my 
girl." 

She  imagined  herself  pursued  by  some  persistent  ill 
luck  and  was  like  an  oriental  fatalist,  and  having  seen  her 
dreams  all  fade  away  and  her  hopes  crushed,  she  would 
sometimes  hesitate  a  whole  day  or  longer  before  under- 
taking the  simplest  thing,  for  fear  she  might  be  on  the 
wrong  road  and  it  would  turn  out  badly.  She  kept  re- 
peating: "Talk  of  bad  luck — I  have  never  had  any  luck 
in  Hfe." 

Then  RosaHe  would  say:  "What  would  j^^ou  do  if  you 
had  to  work  for  your  living,  if  you  were  obliged  to  get 
up  every  morning  at  six  o'clock  to  go  out  to  your  work? 
Many  people  have  to  do  that,  nevertheless,  and  when  they 
grow  too  old  they  die  of  want." 

Jeanne  replied:  "Remember  that  I  am  all  alone;  that 
my  son  has  deserted  me."  And  Rosalie  would  get  very 
angry:     "That's  another  thing!     WeU,  how  about  the 


1 84  UNE  VIE 

sons  who  are  drafted  into  the  army  and  those  who  go  to 
America?" 

America  to  her  was  an  undefined  country,  where  one 
went  to  make  a  fortune  and  whence  one  never  returned. 
She  continued:  ''There  always  comes  a  time  when  people 
have  to  part,  for  old  people  and  young  people  are  not 
made  to  live  together."  And  she  added  fiercely:  "Well, 
what  would  you  say  if  he  were  dead?" 
Jeanne  had  nothing  more  to  say. 
One  day  in  spring  she  had  gone  up  to  the  loft  to  look 
for  something  and  by  chance  opened  a  box  containing 
old  calendars  which  had  been  preserved  after  the  manner 
of  some  country  folks. 

She  took  them  up  and  carried  them  downstairs.  They 
were  of  all  sizes,  and  she  laid  them  out  on  the  table  in 
the  parlor  in  regular  order.  Suddenly  she  spied  the  ear- 
liest, the  one  she  had  brought  with  her  to  "The  Poplars." 
She  gazed  at  it  for  some  time,  at  the  days  crossed  off  by 
her  the  morning  she  left  Rouen,  the  day  after  she  left 
the  convent,  and  she  wept  slow,  sorrowful  tears,  the  tears 
of  an  old  woman  at  sight  of  her  wretched  life  spread  out 
before  her  on  this  table. 

One  morning  the  maid  came  into  her  room  earlier  than 
usual,  and  placing  the  bowl  of  cafe  au  lait  on  the  little 
stand  beside  her  bed,  she  said:  "Come,  drink  it  quickly. 
Denis  is  waiting  for  us  at  the  door.  We  are  going  to 
'The  Poplars'  for  I  have  something  to  attend  to  down 
there." 

Jeanne  dressed  herself  with  trembling  hands,  almost 
fainting  at  the  thought  of  seeing  her  dear  home  once 
more. 

The  sky  was  cloudless  and  the  nag,  who  was  inclined 

to  be  frisky,  would  suddenly  start  off  at  a  gallop  every 

now  and  then.     As  they  entered  the  commune  of  Etou- 

vent  Jeanne's  heart  beat  so  that  she  could  hardly  breathe. 

They  unharnessed  the  horse  at  the  Couillard  place,  and 


UNE  VIE  1 8s 

while  Rosalie  and  her  son  were  attending  to  their  own 
affairs,  the  farmer  and  his  wife  offered  to  let  Jeanne  go 
over  the  chateau,  as  the  proprietor  was  away  and  they  had 
the  keys. 

She  went  off  alone,  and  when  she  reached  the  side  of 
the  chateau  from  which  there  was  a  view  of  the  sea  she 
turned  round  to  look.  Nothing  had  changed  on  the  out- 
side. When  she  turned  the  heavy  lock  and  went  inside 
the  first  thing  she  did  was  to  go  up  to  her  old  room,  which 
she  did  not  recognize,  as  it  had  been  newly  papered  and 
furnished.  But  the  view  from  the  window  was  the  same, 
and  she  stood  and  gazed  out  at  the  landscape  she  had 
so  loved. 

She  then  wandered  all  over  the  house,  walking  quietly 
all  alone  in  this  silent  abode  as  though  it  were  a  cemetery. 
All  her  life  was  buried  here.  She  went  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, which  was  dark  with  its  closed  shutters.  As  her 
eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  she  recoo^iized 
some  of  the  old  hangings.  Two  easy-chairs  were  drawn 
up  before  the  fire,  as  if  some  one  had  just  left  them,  and 
as  Jeanne  stood  there,  full  of  old  memories,  she  suddenly 
seemed  to  see  her  father  and  mother  sitting  there,  warming 
their  feet  at  the  fire. 

She  started  back  in  terror  and  knocked  up  against  the 
edge  of  the  door,  against  which  she  leaned  to  support 
herself,  still  staring  at  the  arm-chairs. 

The  vision  had  vanished. 

She  remained  bewildered  for  some  minutes.  Then  she 
slowly  recovered  her  composure  and  started  to  run  away, 
for  fear  she  might  become  insane.  She  chanced  to  look 
at  the  door  against  which  she  had  been  leaning  and  saw 
there  "Poulet's  ladder." 

All  the  little  notches  were  there  showing  the  age  and 
growth  of  her  child.  Here  was  the  baron's  writing,  then 
hers,  a  little  smaller,  and  then  Aunt  Lison's  rather  shaky 
characters.     And  she  seemed  to  see  her  boy  of  long  ago 


1 86  UNE  VIE 

with  his  fair  hair  standing  before  her,  leaning  his  little 
forehead  against  the  door  while  they  measured  his 
height. 

And  she  kissed  the  edge  of  the  door  in  a  frenzy  of 
affection. 

But  some  one  was  calling  her  outside.  It  was  Rosalie's 
voice:  "Madame  Jeanne,  Madame  Jeanne,  they  are  wait- 
ing breakfast  for  you."  She  went  out  in  a  dream  and 
understood  nothing  of  what  they  were  saying  to  her.  She 
ate  what  they  gave  her,  heard  them  talking,  but  about 
what  uie  knew  not,  let  them  kiss  her  on  the  cheeks  and 
kissed  them  in  return  and  then  got  into  the  carriage. 

When  they  lost  sight  of  the  chateau  behind  the  tall 
trees  she  felt  a  wrench  at  her  heart,  convinced  that  she 
had  bid  a  last  farewell  to  her  old  home. 

When  they  reached  Batteville  and  just  as  she  was  going 
into  her  new  house,  she  saw  something  white  under  the 
door.  It  was  a  letter  that  the  postman  had  slipped  under 
the  door  while  she  was  out.  She  recognized  Paul's  writ- 
ing and  opened  it,  trembling  with  anxiety.    He  wrote: 


"My  Dear  Mother:  I  have  not  written  sooner 
because  I  did  not  wish  you  to  make  a  useless  journey 
to  Paris  when  it  was  my  place  to  go  and  see  you.  I 
am  just  now  in  great  'borrow  and  in  great  straits. 
My  wife  is  dying  after  giving  birth  to  a  little  girl 
three  days  ago,  and  I  have  not  one  sou.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  do  with  the  child,  whom  my  janitor's 
wife  is  bringing  up  on  the  bottle  as  well  as  she  can, 
but  I  fear  I  shall  lose  her.  Could  you  not  take  charge 
of  it?  I  absolutely  do  not  know  what  to  do,  and  I 
have  no  money  to  put  her  out  to  nurse.  Answer  by 
return  mail. 

"Your  son,  who  loves  you, 

"Paul." 


UNE  VIE  187 

Jeanne  sank  into  a  chair  and  had  scarcely  strength  to 
call  Rosalie.  When  the  maid  came  into  the  room  they 
read  the  letter  over  together  and  then  remained  silent  for 
some  time,  face  to  face. 

At  last  Rosalie  said:  "I  am  going  to  fetch  the  little 
one,  madame.     We  cannot  leave  it  like  that." 

"Go,  my  girl,"  replied  Jeanne. 

Then  they  were  silent  until  the  maid  said:  "Put  on 
your  hat,  madame,  and  we  will  go  to  Goderville  to  see 
the  lawyer.  If  she  is  going  to  die,  the  other  one,  M.  Paul 
must  marry  her  for  the  little  one's  sake  later  on." 

Jeanne,  without  replying,  put  on  her  hat.  A  deep,  in- 
expressible joy  filled  her  heart,  a  treacherous  joy  that  she 
sought  to  hide  at  any  cost,  one  of  those  things  of  which 
one  is  ashamed,  although  cherishing  it  in  one's  soul — her 
son's  sweetheart  was  going  to  die. 

The  lawyer  gave  the  servant  minute  instructions,  mak- 
ing her  repeat  them  several  times.  Then,  sure  that  she 
could  make  no  mistake,  she  said:  "Do  not  be  afraid.  I 
will  see  to  it  now." 

She  set  out  for  Paris  that  very  night. 

Jeanne  passed  two  days  in  such  a  troubled  condition 
that  she  could  not  think.  The  third  morning  she  received 
merely  a  line  from  Rosalie  saying  she  would  be  back  on 
the  evening  train.    That  was  all. 

About  three  o'clock  she  drove  in  a  neighbor's  light 
wagon  to  the  station  at  Beuzeville  to  meet  Rosalie. 

She  stood  on  the  platform,  looking  at  the  railroad  track 
as  it  disappeared  on  the  horizon.  She  looked  at  the  clock. 
Ten  minutes  still — five  minutes  still — two  minutes  more. 
Then  the  hour  of  the  train's  arrival,  but  it  was  not  in 
sight.  Presently,  however,  she  saw  a  cloud  of  white 
smoke  and  gradually  it  drew  up  in  the  station.  She 
looked  anxiously  and  at  last  perceived  Rosalie  carrying  a 
sort  of  white  bundle  in  her  arms. 


1 88  UNE  VIE 

She  wanted  to  go  over  toward  her,  but  her  knees  seemed 
to  grow  weak  and  she  was  afraid  of  falling. 

But  the  maid  had  seen  her  and  came  forward  with  her 
usual  calm  manner  and  said:  "How  do  you  do,  madame? 
Here  I  am  back  again,  but  not  without  some  difficulty." 

"Well?"  faltered  Jeanne. 

"Well,"  answered  Rosalie,  "she  died  last  nigEt.  They 
were  married  and  here  is  the  little  girl."  And  she  held 
out  the  child,  who  could  not  be  seen  under  her  wraps. 

Jeanne  took  it  mechanically  and  they  left  the  station 
and  got  into  the  carriage. 

"M.  Paul  will  come  as  soon  as  the  funeral  is  over — 
to-morrow  about  this  time,  I  believe,"  resumed  Rosalie. 

Jeanne  murmured  "Paul"  and  then  was  silent. 

The  wagon  drove  along  rapidly,  the  peasant  clacking 
his  tongue  to  urge  on  the  horse.  Jeanne  looked  straight 
ahead  of  her  into  the  clear  sky  through  which  the  swal- 
lows darted  in  curves.  Suddenly  she  felt  a  gentle  warmth 
striking  through  to  her  skin;  it  was  the  warmth  of  the 
little  being  who  was  asleep  on  her  lap. 

Then  she  was  overcome  with  an  intense  emotion,  and 
uncovering  gently  the  face  of  the  sleeping  infant,  she 
raised  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it  passionately. 

But  Rosalie,  happy  though  grumpy,  stopped  her: 
"Come,  come,  Madame  Jeanne,  stop  that;  you  will  make 
it  cry." 

And  then  she  added,  probably  in  answer  to  her  own 
thoughts:  "Life,  after  all,  is  not  as  good  or  as  bad  as  we 
believe  it  to  be." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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University  of  California 

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